


Wounded

by MichelleJ



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Addiction, Gen, Hurt, Injury, Pre and Post Reichenbach, Scars, Wounded
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-07
Updated: 2014-02-14
Packaged: 2018-01-07 20:53:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 23,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1124270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MichelleJ/pseuds/MichelleJ
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's torture left a mark not just on his skin but on his mind, and it's beginning to change how he interacts with those around him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The impact to Sherlock’s face was a surprise.  
He had imagined various possibilities for how John would respond to his intelligent and well-designed return, and yet physical violence was not one of them.  
He had expected initial shock, yes, but he imagined it would be followed by a rush of guilt and relief, ending with a display of affection, perhaps even a hug.  
Dabbing the blood off his face with a tissue, Sherlock didn’t even wince. Of course he had suffered wounds much more grievous than this tiny blemish, but there was something about it that was so much more painful than any mortal wound he had endured.  
Thinking of the map of crossed scars that marred his back, and the way they rubbed achingly against the inside of his shirt, Sherlock knew he had never felt more physical pain than he had during his time in the Serbian torture room. Every now and again, even though it had been weeks since his escape, the scars would scab and crack and he would spend several frustrated minutes trying to stem the bleeding, his arms not quite long or flexible enough to reach the wounds on his back. He refused to ask anyone for help, despite knowing that Molly would, without hesitation, willingly bind and bandage his wounds for him.  
His reputation meant more to Sherlock than he was willing to admit out loud. Returning to London left him in a position to seem invincible, the man who defied death. He was not going to admit his injuries to anyone.  
But when he stood in the bathroom of 221B Baker Street, his bare back to a mirror, as he tried unsuccessfully to change his bandages and slather salves and creams across the broken and bruised flesh of his mottled back, he wished for one brief moment that there was someone who he was unafraid to appear vulnerable too. That he trusted someone enough to share with them his deepest shame; that he was in fact a flesh and blood, breakable and malleable, human being.  
Those memories of the torture haunted him in the quietest hours of the night when he lay awake thrashing and tossing in his bed. After spending so long being denied a basic need for sleep, he found his sleeping pattern irregular and even when he was exhausted, some part of his brain refused to shut down, as though still reared up like a snarling guard dog against the torture he had been trained to expect the moment his eyelids closed. Sherlock lay awake in his bed, the sheets strewn around him messily from where his limbs thrashed and crawled when the nightmares overtook him. No matter how much he tried to force the memories out of his mind palace, they replayed on a never ending loop of agony.  
The skin on his back was a masterpiece of harsh yellowing bruises, blood blisters, burn scars from where his tortures extinguished their cigars on his flesh, thick knotted scars from whips and knives, and peeling, dying skin encircled the edges of all of his wounds.  
And yet, even though his broken skin lingered as a reminder of the worst pain he had ever felt in his life, the daily aches and pains a phantom reminder of every physical attack launched on his back, the tiny spot of blood on his face put there by one of the few people Sherlock considered a friend was more painful than all his weeks of torture put together.  
That small physical injury unearthed an every greater emotional wound, one which left Sherlock in the most vulnerable position he had even been in. He knew in his blood that he needed John’s forgiveness like he needed air in his lungs. Without it he could feel his chest constrict with each breathe, his narrow focused mind attaching all its concentration on the realisation that what he had done to John was possibly the worst thing he had ever done to anybody. And while Sherlock was usually one to brush off guilt and disregard the emotions of other people, he was struck by how much he cared about what John thought of him, and how much he needed the validation that John was actually happy he was not dead.  
And so he smiled, and so he laughed about his friend’s silly moustache, because that was what he felt was right. Maybe if he was a lighter person, maybe if he smiled more and make more social conversation, then people would give him more smiles and kindness in return. Maybe people would see him as more human than they had. Because Sherlock realised he needed that. He needed people to know he was vulnerable. He needed people to know that he was capable of feeling pain, of feeling remorse, of feeling things for other people that weren’t just cold and scientific deductions.  
He realised he wanted to tell John about his time being tortured. He wanted his friend to see his scars and make a joke about how it was nothing to cover his concern and sympathy. He wanted Molly to bandage his scars and gently rub ointment in the wounds with that light touch of hers, cringing as she felt him wince and apologizing profusely for any pain she might be causing.  
Sherlock wanted people to know he was breakable. It was the biggest sacrifice he could make for the people he cared about, to show them how much he needed them.  
But Sherlock’s smiles and jokes were met with more violence as John attacked him again, drawing more blood and causing more pain in a place even Molly Hooper’s delicate fingers could not reach to heal.  
As he watched his friend drive off in a taxi with his charming girlfriend, John not even bothering to glace back in his direction, Sherlock gave up trying to stop the bleeding from his nose. The way John had launched him into multiple tables in multiple eating establishments had opened up several of the wounds on his back, and he could feel his blood seeping steadily into his crisp white shirt. He clutched his coat tighter to try and hold in his bandages until he could make it back to Baker Street to tend to his emotional and physical wounds. He almost sent a text to Molly to ask for her help, but he stopped himself before he sent it.  
If he was denied sympathy from her as well, Sherlock didn’t think he would be able to take it.  
Somewhere along the line Sherlock had let himself go; his mind had lost its clear, sharp precision, and he began to let the needs of others become a priority over his own.  
So he would keep smiling.  
He would get making jokes.  
And he would keep his injuries to himself.  
He would be the invincible man his friends believed him to be.  
He would never let John know just how much pain he was hiding, and how much more he had caused with just a few small words and well placed fists.


	2. Chapter 2

The moment John Watson saw Sherlock's face, he knew his new found simplistic life was about to fall apart.

After Sherlock's death, John had mourned for months. He sat in apartment 221B, staring absently at the walls and trying to come to grips with the loss of the greatest man he had even known. Sherlock had been infuriating, and at times annoying to the point of extreme irritation, but John had clung to him and his lifestyle so desperately that he had lost himself within it. Without Sherlock Holmes, John did not know who he was supposed to be anymore. A doctor? A soldier? He couldn't remember.

After returning from the war, John had been lost. The streets of London were foreign and unfamiliar, and his guard had been raised to everything around him. The truth was, he couldn't quite turn off his soldier's instincts. He was constantly on the lookout for danger, his defences drawn against every strange face and unforeseeable circumstance.

And then came Sherlock, with his deadly life and dangerous adventures, and John had become infatuated by it. He finally had a reason to keep waking up in the morning, his soldier's instincts put to use. John had fell easily into step with Sherlock, depending on him like his own identity relied upon it. But that didn't mean John enjoyed every aspect of Sherlock's companionship.

Sherlock was larger than life, and while John sometimes enjoying drifting contently in his shadow, there were times when he felt so overwhelmed by his impertinent and illustrious counterpart. Theirs was a relationship of dependency, John needed Sherlock, who in turn never needed anyone. Sometimes John felt as though being around Sherlock somehow managed to be the most satisfying but unrewarding time of his life.

And so he dated. Obsessively. John couldn't stand being single for long periods of time. When a relationship failed, he mourned for a number of days before turning his attention on a suitably available and interested woman in his life. John Watson, who relied so heavily on his best friend to give him a purpose in life, constantly craved the dependency of another person. He needed to feel needed, and it was the one thing that Sherlock Holmes could never give him.

Sherlock's death had transformed John into a directionless man desperately clutching at the straws of his rapidly deteriorating lifestyle. Things were slipping through his fingers that Sherlock had once held together. His relationships with Mrs Hudson, Molly, Lestrade, and their other acquaintances faltered. He never called any of them, or made an effort to keep up with their lives. It was as though it wasn't just Sherlock who had passed on, it was the pieces of John's life that Sherlock had stitched together. His friends, his home, his job and his stability had all collapsed around him, and picking up the pieces was something that John could simply not do on his own.

And then he met her.

Mary.

Even thinking her name gave John a rush of emotions he could barely contain. She was everything he needed in the absence of Sherlock. She was kind to him, and made him feel as though he was, as an individual and not just Sherlock's companion, important. She made him feel as though she needed him, and together they were able to piece together the fragments of John's life, and rebuild them to create a beautiful mosaic without any of the darkness of John's past with Sherlock interwoven in the pieces.

What they had was nothing like John's previous life with Sherlock, which was a constant battle of indulging his darker urges and following a man blindly out of admiration. John's life with Mary consisted of a warm house, a warm body in his bed next to him, a simple job, and the mutual dependency of a couple in love. John didn't realise how happy he could be out of Sherlock's influence, but he was the happiest he had been in over two years.

And then he returned.

And the life he had built with Mary was like a house of cards in the wind; a light enough push and it would all fall apart.

His lovingly stitched together mosaic strained as his eyes scanned the face of the man who should have been long dead. John had held that man as he died, buried him, grieved him, and then he had moved on with his life. But seeing Sherlock's face ignited a part of John that he thought had been buried with his friend. A hunger for adventure and mystery and danger.

And just like that John's mosaic changed again. Sherlock's influence had woven its way once more into the very base of John's life, and his need to prove himself to the man whose every action was committed with the intent of tearing apart another human being flared up again. John could feel the eyes of his beautiful girlfriend watching him in confusion as John had pulled himself to his feet.

John felt a tidal wave of emotion so intense that grasping onto just one emotion seemed impossible. So he took hold of the first one, the first emotion he could recall feeling the moment he first recognised those perceptive blue eyes under that mane of shaggy dark hair.

He threw himself at Sherlock in anger, knocking him to the ground with a loud thud followed by the shouts of other patrons in the restaurant. John had blocked them out, his soldier's instincts rekindled in the wake of Sherlock's presence, his hands gripping themselves tightly around Sherlock's throat.

John was angry that Sherlock had returned, and shattered the peaceful life he was leading, but it was more than that. John was angry Sherlock had returned on the basis that everything he had built for himself was expected to be simply put aside to usher Sherlock and his infectious lifestyle back in. John was angry that Sherlock had the audacity to try and surprise him rather than just simply picking up a bloody telephone or even sending a text.

And John was angry that Sherlock had been out there for two years.

Out there in the world, in the face of danger, risking his life for the sake of England.

Without letting John follow.

John knew that given a choice between a domestic life with Mary and the thrill of following Sherlock's coattails, his choice would be immediate.

It was also anger at himself that made John's fist collide with the side of Sherlock's face, anger that this arrogant man had such a hold on him.

But John knew as he brought his fist back to Sherlock's face, that he could fight back his darker side just as he was fighting the embodiment of it. He would choose Mary. He wanted to choose Mary.

If he could only remove his dependency for Sherlock Holmes from his mosaic of fragile pieces, then John knew he would be happy. Mary made him happy.

But being around Sherlock had always made him feel more alive


	3. Chapter 3

The wounds on Sherlock's back were refusing to heal.

It had been two months since his return, and he could feel that his back was still a bloody mess of scar and cracked skin. He suspected it might have become infected, but Sherlock was too preoccupied to care enough to find out. There was no need to trouble anyone else with his insignificant problems.

Things between Sherlock and John had drastically improved since their first meeting. Sherlock suspected he owed a lot of that to Mary Morstan- make that Mary Watson now.

Mary was very different to all of the other women John had traipsed past him over the years. She had a refined beauty that even Sherlock could acknowledge, but it wasn't her looks that caught Sherlock's attention, it was her mind. She wasn't nearly as clever as he was, Sherlock knew that, but she was intelligent in her own perspective way. She could read people's emotions the way he could read their backstory, and Sherlock admired her for that. He remembered the way she had smiled at him upon their first meeting. He had just ruined her evening, and yet she gave him nothing but kindness, and a soft promise to help John come around. In her Sherlock had found his exact opposite, attentive to all the things he was dismissive off. And yet he could recognise that she was exactly what John needed, so perhaps that made him exactly what John needed least.

But still their relationship endured. It wasn't restored to its original glory. Everything was different now that John had a wife, and a baby on the way to boot. He didn't have as much time for Sherlock as he once did. He refused to drop whatever he was doing and rush over to Baker Street to help him with his investigations anymore, much to Sherlock's annoyance. Sherlock could feel the two of them drifting apart. Mrs Hudson had told him that weddings change people. He didn't believe it to be true, since the wedding was merely a solidification of a relationship that already existed. How different would having a wife be in contrast to a girlfriend? Since Sherlock had never been interested in acquiring either, he supposed he wouldn't know what a romantic relationship with another person was like anyway.

But Sherlock still clung to the relationship he had once had with John out of fear. When John had asked Sherlock to be the best man at his wedding Sherlock could never have foreseen it. He hadn't believed that he had meant anything to John, what with the way he had reacted to the news Sherlock wasn't dead. Sherlock had felt so insignificant, so unimportant in John's new life with Mary, that when approached about the subject his thoughts immediately jumped to Garry, or was it Gus? Or Goyle? – Lestrade. He was a good man, if somewhat inept at his job. And upon being told he was wrong, Sherlock had imaged John must mean Mike Stamford, also a man whose company John seemed to enjoy. But John had meant him, and Sherlock had been struck by something he had never been struck by before.

An inability to speak.

Later that evening after John had left, Sherlock had laid awake, perfectly still, for once the aching of his back was pushed to the darkest recesses of his mind. John had called Sherlock his best friend, something he had never thought it possible for another human being to think of towards him. Sherlock finally had his validation that he meant something to John and he wasn't even able to respond with some witty quip, or brush aside the sentimentality of it, or even express his lack of faith in the necessity of marriage to begin with. Sherlock could only stare at the man who had placed so much trust in him, given him so much admiration, and even saved him from his own pompous and arrogant mind, unable to mutter a simple thank you.

After the wedding, John and Mary had faded even more from the forefront of Sherlock's life. Their visits became less frequent, and lasted for less time. John only managed to find time for one case with Sherlock in those few weeks after his marriage. It got to the point that Sherlock was so desperate for the attention of his best friend, that one evening after a quiet day in playing violin and watching some vapid show on the telly, he picked up his phone and sent John a series of texts.

_Need Help. SH_

_Come Quickly. SH_

_Important. SH_

_Also Dangerous. SH_

Each message was sent exactly fifteen seconds after the other. Sherlock had counted the seconds meticulously, waiting for Johns reply. He knew John's pone buzzed for exactly five seconds, and it usually took John about ten seconds to acknowledge it. Sending each message exactly fifteen seconds after the other ensured that even if John was too distracted to notice his phone buzzing the first time, he would be sure to notice at least one of the messages coming in.

The truth was, Sherlock didn't have a case, he just wanted to see his friend, to see how he was doing, to try and figure out if married life was making John as happy as he made it seem the few times they had seen each other that past month.

The fourth message was Sherlock's final piece of bait. He knew John loved danger, so much so that he had willingly ran face first into it many times with Sherlock by his side. But John never showed up, he didn't even reply to the texts for over five hours. Sherlock had been pacing the floor of his living room, his fingers itching for a cigarette, more so out of a complete and utter boredom than force of habit. Oh how he longed for a cigarette! When he felt his phone beep, he had it out of his pocket before the tone had even finished.

_Sorry, out with Mary. Shopping for curtains for our apartment, and dinner reservations for later. You can handle this one on your own can't you? Mary sends her love. JW_

Flinging himself backwards on his couch violently in despair, Sherlock had forgotten about his aching wounds, which split immediately on impact. A short cry of pain escaped Sherlock's lips before he stopped himself. The pain was a sharp burst of fire and pressure, leaving Sherlock gasping, one hand fumbling to tear off his jacket and shirt. Dragging himself to his bathroom, he turned around to examine his wounds. Having not bothered to care for them since the wedding, Sherlock felt a flush of panic as he quickly scanned the broken and diseased skin which strained grotesquely over his muscles. The wounds were seeping a pale yellow fluid, some areas of the skin were so infected the tissue had turned completely black. Blood leaked down his back from multiple split wounds.

It's a psychosomatic impulse that once you look upon your own injuries, they begin to feel much worse. If a child were to break their arm without realising they had broken it, they might complain of an ache. Whereas a child who has been told their arm is broken will cry and scream as though it had been cut off at the shoulder.

Sherlock was a man who understood the way the human mind worked, and yet he was powerless to stop the excruciating pain he began to feel as he looked at his disfigured back. It all crashed down on him at once, the raw dull ache of the wounds that had finally closed over, the fresh splitting pain of the nearly opened scars, and the numbingly painful, fiery burn of the infected skin. Sherlock fell to his knees with a shout, his body lurched sideways as he flung an arm around the toilet bowl to steady himself, and stop himself from hitting the tiled floor. He pulled out his phone, wincing as the movement from his arm shifted the skin on his back, igniting a fresh wave of pain.

_John I need help. SH_

He typed with gritted teeth. John's reply was almost immediate, and Sherlock could almost feel the exasperation John must have felt while typing it.

_Not tonight Sherlock. I told you I'm busy. JW_

Sherlock felt the phone slip from his fingers and skid across the tiled floor. His arm gave out and he fell from his crouched position, his head hitting the tiles with a soft thud. Sherlock's eyelids fluttered closed, the pain took hold of him and he fell immediately into darkness.


	4. Chapter 4

When Sherlock's eyes fluttered open, he quickly scanned the room to see how long he had been out. Judging by the light in the bathroom, the temperature of the room, and the uncongealed blood splatters on the tiles, he estimated he couldn't have been unconscious for longer than an hour. Picking himself up from the floor, Sherlock reached for his mobile. He had no new messages.

It was a mixed feeling of relief which washed over him, touched only by the smallest sense of sadness. To have been found in his position would have been beyond mortification. Sherlock could imagine how he must have looked on the bathroom floor, his bare back exposing his most shameful secret. How pitiful he would have looked. How vulnerable.

Sherlock reveled in his invincible man disguise, and he wasn't going to have that questioned by being in the compromising position of fragility, lying bleeding on his bathroom floor. Taking a deep breathe to steady himself, Sherlock turned once more to his mirror, Mycroft's voice in his head urging him to distance himself from his senses.

Pain is just a creation of your imagination, brother mine.

Sherlock clenched his teeth, but looked upon his injuries with his more reasonable and scientific mind. Having alienated himself from his wounds, he managed to force himself to ignore the ache, and survey himself clinically, as though the mangled skin he saw in the mirror belonged to someone else's body.

He pictured himself in Bart's Hospital morgue, a fresh corpse of a younger man who had no face was placed neatly in front of him. Molly Hooper stood by his side, her deft fingers examining the wounds.

"Looks like a severe infection, if I had to guess I would say it was caused by staphylococcus aureus…"

Sherlock sighed, and stepping closer to the body that was not his, examined the wounds with microscopic precision. He honed in on the oozing pus, taking in its density and texture and mentally comparing it to the other kinds of pus he had stored in a secret space of his mind.

"Transmitted pathogenically into the wound as a result of neglect" Sherlock murmured, using a scalpel to lift a piece of the swollen red flesh that encircled the man's scars.

"Based on the degeneration of the vitality of the skin, I'd say this man needs to have all of the dead skin cut out, the infection is far too advanced for medicine and treatments." Sherlock spoke quickly, circling the faceless man, his attention focused solely on the swollen skin around the man's scars.

"But Sherlock," Molly paused, her fingers fumbling awkwardly in her pockets the way they sometimes did whenever she spoke directly to him.

"This man is dead, why would we bother to cut out his infection?"

Sherlock let out a sigh of exasperation, and pulling himself up quickly, began to shift around the interior of his mind palace into a more appropriate location for man who was neither alive nor dead.

He stood in a room with white walls and white floors. There were no doors or windows, just a large white table upon which the faceless man lay, his mottled back facing the ceiling. Molly Hooper stood beside him again, except this time her face wore a panicked expression as she felt for the faceless man's pulse, her svelte fingers pushing down into his wrist.

"Now Molly, where is the first place you'd start to remove the infection?" His voice was low and controlled. His mind palace was the one place where he could influence everything around him. He was the only thing that existed on a sentient scale, everything else was a recreation of knowledge he already knew. It was the most efficient way for him to shift through his memories and experiences, and piece together his cases in his realm of infinite knowledge. But it only worked if he already possessed the answers.

"I don't know what to do Sherlock!" Molly pleaded frantically.

"I don't know how to cut them up when they're still alive! This man needs a doctor! A real doctor! Not a bloody specialist registrar!"

"Fine." Sherlock snapped with annoyance, pushing Molly and the faceless man back into the recesses of his mind, filed meticulously amongst the rest of his knowledge about diseases and infections.

Sherlock wished he had spent more time studying medicine in his youth. He had a very expansive knowledge of the different kinds of bacteria, and how to recognise them by their symptoms. He could isolate different infections from the effect they had on the appearance of the cellular structure. But never had he learnt the correct way to treat them. His prioritisation of knowledge had never been so frustrating to him; he understood the science perfectly, but once again he only knew how to identify a problem, but never how to treat one.

Of course, that knowledge would be of absolutely no use to him in this particular instance anyway. He could hardly operate on his own back when he had struggled to even change his bandages. If he had been more willing to ask for the help of others, Sherlock knew he wouldn't be in this mess. But that just wasn't the way his mind worked, it wasn't the way he wanted people to see him.

But there was nothing he could do about it now.

Walking with the purpose of a man on a mission, Sherlock marched into his bedroom and ripped off his bed sheet. He didn't want to risk trying to fasten himself into a shirt, so for the sake of modesty he wrapped himself up in his sheet, holding it loosely so it barely brushed his too warm skin.

He repeated the words he had imaged Mycroft would have said to him in his head.

Pain is just a creation.

He would not feel pain if he choose not to feel pain.

Sherlock exited out of his apartment and made his way slowly down the stairs, his bed sheet dragging behind him like a great train. He clutched it a little tighter over his chest, just enough that he could be sure it would not fall. Stopping outside of Mrs Hudson's door he knocked several times, and upon hearing no noise from within her apartment, banged several times louder. He heard a muffled curse word, and then the door swung open, revealing Mrs Hudson in a floral cotton nightdress to her knees, a dense robe pulled hastily over her slim shoulders.

"Sherlock!" She scolded him in that voice that reminded him so much of his own mothers.

"It's the middle of the night! What's the matter?"

Sherlock spared a quick glance inside Mrs Hudson's flat, a look at her clock revealed that it was in fact midnight.

"My apologies Mrs Hudson I was unaware of the time."

He found himself unable to continue his confession, knowing that the moment he told her where he was going, she would be on the phone to John and Mary and Sherlock would never hear the end of it. But that secret part of him flared up again, that part that longed for human sympathy. He had felt it directly after revealing himself to be alive to John, and it had stayed dormant in his mind all this time. Sherlock had wanted to feel more accepted, a brief taste of which he had savored at John's wedding. He wanted the validation of his personal importance to those he cared for most, and he had received that in John's kind words. But Sherlock still craved a fortification of understanding, he wanted those closest to him to know he was breakable, that John's fading presence in his life was affecting him more than he could express, and that there were times when even he, the invincible man Sherlock Holmes, needed the consistent friendship, support, and help of the small group of people whose company Sherlock no longer merely tolerated, but depended upon.

"Well, what is it dear?" Mrs Hudson asked, her kind face with its creases of concern solidified Sherlock's resolve to open up. To ask for help.

"I won't be needing my morning cup of tea Mrs Hudson."

Sherlock exhaled softly, his gaze drifting to the floor, unable to say those shameful words that stuck a bit on their way out of his throat.

"I need St Bart's hospital."


	5. Chapter 5

White walls and swinging doors passed by him in a blur. The distant noise of machines and the soft thrum of a collection of voices all failed to penetrate the veil Sherlock had draped over his mind. A nurse had given him something the moment he stumbled into the emergency room, despite his fevered attempts to stop her. He wanted to be in and out of the hospital as quickly as he could, but before he could do anything she had pulled away his sheet. Her sharp intake of breath as she discovered his wounds halted her movements briefly, before she restarted her scampering at an increased rate.

A gurney was rushed towards him as two available nurses managed to lift his body face down upon it. Sherlock felt the sharp prick of a needle being pushed into his arm and his eyes opened widely as he kicked and tried to pull himself off the stretcher.

"No! No morphine!" He ordered, but the nurses disregarded his wishes and continued to chatter in their low hushed voices which Sherlock was choosing to ignore. One of them grabbed a hold of his legs while the other strapped him down, fastening soft fabric cuffs around his ankles and his wrists.

"Please try to remain calm sir, we will do all we can." The one at his legs directed at him, but Sherlock was far from calm. The indignation of being shirtless on a gurney, his well-being placed in the hands of those Sherlock neither trusted nor cared for, was enough to make him cringe. The added insult of the morphine left Sherlock counting down the seconds until he lost power over his greatest asset.

As he felt the effects of the morphine slowly begin to blunt his mind, the hospital began to blur around him.

Doors swung and people talked, their voices like tittering birds. Incessant and unrelenting was the drone of noises in his mind. His focus was dulled to all of his surrounding except for the feel of the cuffs around his wrists, jostling against his skin. From those cuffs Sherlock was reminded off the long faded bruises which had once blossomed under his skin, put there by the harsh steel chains of the Serbian torture chamber.

_When he was first captured, he was beaten to the point of unconsciousness. It was a good solid kick to the side of his head that sent him over the edge into thoughtless oblivion. When he regained consciousness he found himself trapped in a small room; the shirt from his back had been removed, and his hands were secured in iron chains which were attached to opposite walls. The slack of the chains were not long enough for Sherlock to find rest on the uneven stone floor, so he was forced to stand, unable to find any comfort as the muscles on his back strained and ached._

_He remained in that room for what felt like several days before anyone came to see him. He was not fed or given water, and the only rest he could manage was in short brief intervals before the spasms which raked his torturously exhausted muscles jolted him back awake._

_He spend most of his time in his mind palace over those few days, hearing the voices of his absent friends giving him the strength to keep holding on to the possibility of escape. It was John's voice Sherlock turned to most in those earlier days. He tried to imagine what John would say to him if he ever got the chance to see him again, and reveal himself as not dead._

_"I can't believe you're alive!" John would say, a gradual relief seeping into his voice._

_"I've missed you so much Sherlock"_

_And Sherlock would smirk and endure the affectionate hug from his friend, granting him a reassuring pat on the back._

_"I know you have John, your life must have been so dull and tedious without me"_

_These imagined scenarios gave Sherlock strength, a fantasy to cling to desperately. He assured himself that he would see John again, he would return to his friend alive. He would not die there, he would not die before he had the chance to return to England and fulfil the miracle John had asked of him that day in the cemetery._

_But once the torture began, it grew harder to escape into his mind and imagine such light and hopeful futures._

_His torturer was a large Serbian man of impressive strength and size. He would enter Sherlock's room each morning and demand to know who he was working for. When Sherlock refused to answer, too immersed in a fantasy in which Mrs Hudson and Molly Hooper had baked him a cake for his birthday, which while Sherlock refused to eat, was moved by the sentiment. Failing to answer the man's gruff question, he would then slowly lower his cigar and hold it close to Sherlock's skin, close enough that he could feel the heat waves mere millimetres away from scorching his flesh. The man would then ask what information he was seeking from them, and again Sherlock would remain completely silent, his head hanging into his chest. The burning cigar would find his skin and Sherlock would shudder involuntarily as the man pressed it as hard as he could against his back._

_"Одговори ми!" The man would shout directly in his face, his cigar unrelenting in its persistently increasing pressure against his skin. Sherlock spend days deducing clues from this man, his mind not working as fast as he was used to as a result of mental and physical exhaustion. They began to bring him water once a day, and pulling his head towards the roof by the roots of his hair, poured the glass of impure water into his mouth. Sherlock was allowed as much as he could swallow, no more. The men who had captured him clearly were desperate for answers, because no matter how far they pushed him physically, they were not going to let him die. It was a small comfort Sherlock depended on. As long as they believed he was useful, he might be able to stall them from disposing of him long enough to work out an escape plan._

_But every day Sherlock found it grew harder for him to hear the soothing words of his friends in his head. Every time his torturer left his room, after mutilating Sherlock's flesh with cuts and bruises, attacking him with a lead pipe against his sides until Sherlock was sure several of his ribs had cracked, Sherlock would retreat into his mind. He tried only half successfully to summon the faces of the people he cared about most in this world. But each day their words grew more harsh, their demeanour more dismissive. They thought him useless. They thought him a fraud. Molly once sneered at him and wondered out loud what she had ever saw in him, he was so damaged. John had questioned why he had ever thought so highly of him- he was after all just a man who could bleed and die like any other. Mycroft began to laugh at him, confessing an ugly truth that he had wanted to see Sherlock so broken and bloodied ever since they were children._

_Sherlock could not piece together how long he remained there, suffering gut wrenching pain every day, served not only by his tireless attacker, but at the mercy of his own mind._

_On his last day, he was willing to do anything, say anything to escape the pain. He told his attacker his wife was having an affair with the coffin maker next door, a fact he could not tell was true, but knew it was definitely a suspicion his attacker harboured bitterly. Once the man had hurried out of the room, Sherlock felt his body drop in relief. The skin on his back felt so brutalised he was surprised he hadn't long died of abuse or blood loss. The muscles of his arms burned in discomfort, still shackled to the walls of his prison. He could not control the tremors that raked his body as his muscles screamed for rest._

_And that was when he had revealed himself, Mycroft. He had been then for several days, just sitting quietly in the room, watching his torturer beat him and bleed him. Sherlock could not distinguish the difference between the words of the Mycroft in the room, or the Mycroft in his head._

_"I did enjoy that, brother mine" Mycroft had murmured darkly as he unchained Sherlock from the wall. His body had slumped to the floor, the twitching of his muscles and the sweet burning pain of the returning blood flow was the most exquisitely wonderful pain he had ever felt in his life._

_It was days until Sherlock said a word._

_He refused to talk all the way back to London. His recovering mind working tirelessly to delete the malicious torture he had inflicted upon himself, though he couldn't identify the plausible fantasies from the ones he knew would never happen._

_He knew that Mrs Hudson and Molly Hooper would never bake him a birthday cake. They would know he would never eat it, so they would never bother. It was a childish fantasy._

_But Sherlock feared that the images conjured by his tortured mind were closer to the truth than any he had in the beginning, when he was still clinging to hope and the thought of rescue._

_Sherlock feared that Mycroft really had enjoyed watching him suffer._

_He feared that Molly no longer saw any redeeming qualities in him._

_But mostly Sherlock feared that John would not welcome his return, a thought he quickly pushed from his mind._

_Of course John would welcome him back. Sherlock had saw him plead at his empty grave, had heard him ask for that one miracle Sherlock was adamant he would provide. John would be overwhelmed to see him again, Sherlock was sure of it._

_Right up until the moment his face was struck by John's angry fist._


	6. Chapter 6

John Watson was asleep when the shrill chirp of his landline jolted both him and his newly wed wife awake. Mary groaned and pulled the cover over her head tightly, which was lying softly on John's chest. John's arms were wrapped around her, their legs intertwined. It was this same position they found rest in each night when they retired to bed. For John, sharing his bed with Mary left him feeling completed, she was the final puzzle piece to his happiness. After he had lost Sherlock, John had felt so utterly and completely alone. He had let all of his friendships deteriorate around him in his despair, as each one of them stood as a reminder of the seemingly full and satisfying life Sherlock had introduced him too. Meeting Mary had been the best thing that had happened to him since losing Sherlock as she had helped him seal his wounds, with her soft voice and fast wit.

That night as John had crawled into bed, his wife at his side, he had never felt more content. He had found a woman who he had fallen in love with, and who had fallen in love with him too. His best friend was back from the dead, and for once the woman he was with actually enjoyed the company of his petulant and arrogant companion. What's more was that Sherlock seemed to like her too, which delighted him more than he would ever reveal. After constantly seeking Sherlock's approval, he had received it in abundance at his wedding, a day he would never forget for all of the things Sherlock had done for him on it. His relationships with Greg and Molly and Mrs Hudson had grown back, just as strong as they had been before his self-enforced isolation.

He had found a balance to his life that suited him, though he knew Sherlock missed his constant companionship. But John could not always be there for the man that sometimes acted like a bratty child when he didn't have his way. However after the flurry of texts in what John presumed to be Sherlock's way of begging for his attention, he made a promise to himself that he would pop by Baker Street in the morning, just to make sure Sherlock wasn't sulking in a corner out of what he would no doubt term neglect.

The truth was that John really did miss Sherlock, but he had other responsibilities now, that required most of his attention. Mary and John were starting work on putting together a nursery for their child. Mary insisted that her mothering instincts told her the baby was a boy, but John secretly hoped it would be a girl. He longed to have a baby daughter, with Mary's soft blonde curls and her bright green eyes. He wanted a little girl that he could protect and defend for the rest of his life. A baby girl who would never grow too old to call him "Daddy". He hoped that after she was born, Mary might agree to letting Sherlock be their daughters godfather- should anything every happen to them. Trusting Sherlock with children might seem like the absolute worst thing a parent would ever do to their child, but John knew that his best friend would always look after his one. He had promised to at the wedding, and a promise from Sherlock was never to be taken lightly.

Johns mind was at rest, and his troubles were small.

All until that piecing chime of the telephone pulled him from his sleep.

"You get it" Mary mumbled into his chest, her fingers clutching the fabric of the front of his shirt.

"Then you need to let go of me" John slurred, his mind still in the process of waking itself up. The phone continued to ring as John leant down to kiss his wife gently on the brow, shifting her from his arms and onto her own side of the bed. Pulling the covers back up around her shoulders, he could see her smiling gently as she fell easily back into sleep.

Stumbling down the hallway John felt his own shoulder's graze against the walls as he swayed from side to side. Shaking his head to try and jump start his attentiveness, John blinked rapidly to keep his eyes from closing themselves again.

"Coming" he mumbled at his telephone.

"I'm bloody coming"

He shuffled into the kitchen and picked up his phone, the high pitched voice on the other end made him cringe and pull the phone away from his ear until he could hear the other line go quiet.

"John?" He heard Mrs Hudson call, a frantic edge to her voice John was not used to hearing. Panic flared in his veins, burning away all of his fatigue and leaving him into a state of alertness. Feeling wide awake he pulled the receiver back to his ear. This time he had no trouble keeping his eyes open.

"What is it Mrs Hudson, what wrong?"

John listened in complete silence as his former landlady explained how Sherlock had just been at her front door wrapped in a sheet. She lost her focus for a few moments and began to dither on about how scared he had made her feel, with his wide round eyes and absent stare. He had been deep in thought, she could tell, but all he had told her was that he needed to go to St Bart's hospital, before turning quickly on his heel and running out the door. She had yelled after him, and followed him out onto the street, but he was already in a taxi, his eyes still glazed and thoughtful.

"Thank you Mrs Hudson" John replied briskly, his thoughts spinning out of control as he tried to absorb the news.

"John what are you going to d-"

"Thank you Mrs Hudson" John repeated, a little louder and a lot more forceful. He placed the phone back in its cradle and just stood in his kitchen.

Sherlock Holmes had taken himself to hospital.

John's only resounding though was ' _what the_   _bloody hell have you done!'_  His mind leapt to all kinds of uncertain conclusions, involving drugs mostly. John had never asked his friend if he had been clean those past few years, and he mentally kicked himself for his lack of attentiveness. Though of course that was only one solution, the other, and more blindingly obvious to John, was that Sherlock actually did need his help that evening, and he had blown him off. To shop for curtains.

Within minutes John was dressed, his phone in hand, rereading the messages Sherlock had sent him, except this time John processed them far more seriously. Sherlock had needed help and John hadn't been there for him, and now something had gone terribly wrong. He tried calling Sherlock's number, but was sent straight to voicemail. Writing a note for Mary and leaving it on her pillow, explaining that Sherlock needed him and he wasn't sure when he would be back, John dashed out of his apartment and quickly hailed a cab, not allowing himself time to think that he could already be too late.

Mary and his baby might mean the world to him, but Sherlock would always be his Sun, the first thing to give his life warmth and light in a very long time. He would follow Sherlock anywhere, do anything for him, and risk his life a hundred times over if it meant the faintest chance of saving his best friend's life. But John had never told him that, afraid he would be brushed off for displaying such excessive sentiment that was sure to make Sherlock roll his eyes and tear him down with emotionless reasoning.

"St Bart's Hospital" He told his cabbie sharply.

"Quick as you can please"

He had already lost Sherlock once.

He damn sure wasn't going to let it happen again.


	7. Chapter 7

"Where is he? What's wrong with him?"

John burst into the emergency room, the doors banging against the wall in his wake. The nurse at the front desk looked up with an expression of a frightened deer, her lips quivering as she parted them to speak.

"Excuse me sir?"

John's fist slammed down on the front desk, causing the startled nurse to let out a small squeak and jump in her seat. A couple of papers drifted slowly to the ground from where John had disrupted them.

"Sherlock Holmes! Where is he? Why is he here?"

John's voice reverberated around the room, which had gone so deathly still, as though time itself had slowed down to drag out John's furious uncertainty. He listened stoically to the flustered nurse as she pulled up Sherlock's file, and began to explain in a timid voice that he had been admitted less than an hour earlier. John felt his heart beat pick up as she explained the condition.

Serious cell tissue infection, and a back covered in poorly treated wounds.

Sherlock was currently unconscious, waiting for a surgeon to arrive to carry out an immediate skin graft. The nurse frowned as she read that last part of the file, as though it was unexpected.

John felt sick to his stomach, the only thought he could keep a hold of was an urgency to see him, to assess the damage with his own eyes and not simply hear it read from the colourless, emotionless words from that gut wrenching file.

"Where?" John managed to choke out, his legs already directing him towards the corridor of rooms John knew where used for patients.

"12C". The nurse called to him. She began to stand up, her face indecisive as she tried to wrestle with the idea of stopping him.

"Are you family?" She yelled at his back, John was at the door now, he knew exactly where 12C was, a room frequently used for emergency cases, always manned by an able bodied nurse.

"Closest thing he's got" John called back, pushing the doors open and immediately falling into a quick sprint. He didn't allow himself time to think about what he'd see, all he had running through his head as he sprinted down the hallway was a wordless plea that everything was going to be alright.

"Oh my god." John's hand when straight to his mouth the moment he opened up the door to where Sherlock lay. He massaged his chin as he stepped closer, unable to tear his eyes away from the unconscious man lying in the hospital bed. He looked so gaunt, how had John not noticed that before? His cheekbones jutted from his face more so than usual, and the dark circles under his eyes were a tell-tale sign of many sleepless nights. John wanted to hit himself for not noticing just how ill his friend had become. He settled for clenching his fists and jaw, and bent stiffly to pick up Sherlock's chart, his eyes skimming the page but failing to pick up any words. His gaze kept being drawn back to Sherlock, whose skin had become the colour of alabaster at some point during John's neglect.

John could see it, the strikingly similar comparison, of the Sherlock he had found in this bed, and the Sherlock he had seen lying broken and bloodied on the pavement outside that very hospital. John had to clench his teeth to stop a frustrated cry from escaping. Both times John had been too late, too slow to pick up on the signs. He had watched his best friend die on the pavement, his skin so pale and body so fragile, and now there he was again, broken, battered, and beyond John's help.

He turned to the nurse, who had been watching him with silent sympathy.

"Do you know what happened?" He asked her, the loud and desperate voice he had used in the lobby had dissipated to a quiet hush. He couldn't yell, not in here. Not when he looked as though Sherlock was simply sleeping.

"We don't know how he got the wounds sir, only that they've been there for a while, but ill looked after." The nurse's voice was kind and gentle. She laid a hand on John's clenched fist, and offered him a reassuring smile.

"Your husband is going to be fine, the surgeon coming in is the finest surgeon in all of London; for him a skin graft is a standard procedure" She patted his hand comfortingly.

"I'm not... he's not my.." For once John didn't care about correcting her. He let the inaccurate comment slide, aware that he would probably be kicked out of the room for being anything other than Sherlock's partner.

"Can I…" John began falteringly, his hands twitching nervously by his side.

"Can I see his back please?"

The nurse smiled sadly at him.

"I'm afraid we shouldn't move his body, in case it causes more damage. We have a temporary bandage covering the wounds, sir."

John nodded thoughtfully, but inside he could hear his mind swearing at him. He needed to see what Sherlock had been hiding from him, as some self-deprecating way to understand just how little Sherlock had trusted him.

"Could you get me a glass of water please?" John asked quickly, bluntly. If his tone come out rude, the nurse did not show it. She only smiled in her perfect bedside manner and nodded once, a sympathetic look in her eyes as she placed her hand gently on his shoulder and told him she would take her time. John knew what she was doing, giving him alone time to grief for his "husband". John didn't even care, he just needed to see what was behind Sherlock's bandage.

The moment the nurse left the room, John was by Sherlock's side. He hesitated before he reached out to touch him, part of him was scared he would feel the cold dead skin of the recently deceased. Sherlock definitely looked dead, if it weren't for the constant rise and fall of his chest as his heart continued to beat, constant, steady, but much slower than John would have liked.

Sucking in a deep breathe, John let his fingers curl around Sherlock's shoulders. Sherlock's closed eyes still managed to stare at him accusingly as John slowly pulled Sherlock away from the headboard. He was grateful they had placed Sherlock in a sitting position, or else his task would have been all the more difficult. Holding Sherlock steady with one hand, John shifted his position so he had a clear view of the large white bandage that had been taped onto Sherlock's back right at the nape of the neck down to what seemed like the slim line of Sherlock's hips. Gently, John pried away the top of the bandage, and began to peal it gently down. As each slow inch revealed another grotesque scar, hideous yellow bruise, and worst of all, the crisp black skin surrounded by swollen red edges and seeping pus, John felt his eyes widen in horror. How could he have never noticed any of this?

"Jesus" He breathed, using the hand that had been peeling down the bandage to cover him mouth again, a reflex he had been up in the war when faced with the stench of the dying. He had seen enough, he didn't want to see anymore. Pushing the bandage gingerly into place, he gently lay Sherlock back against his pillow, stepping away from the body and burying his fists deep into his pockets.

What John had seen was in ways not as bad as some of the things he had seen in Afghanistan. He had once treated a man who had been standing too close to a grenade when it went off. One of the man's legs needed to be amputated, it had been shredded to absolute pieces. Bone had been shattered and splintered through the skin in multiple places, the muscle ripped beyond all repair. On top of that, he was covered from head to toe in severe burns. All of his body hair had been singed off including his eyelashes, his retinas permanently blinded by the glare of fire and smoke and ash. John had been with this man until his dying breathe, which he used to cry out the names of the wife he was leaving behind, and the son who would never remember his face. It had been tragic and messy, and it was something John would never forget in all his life, but he had never known that man. His injuries had been horrendous, and John had done everything he could to ease the pain, but he did not have a connection to that man as he did to Sherlock. Sherlock's bloodied back seemed all the more gruesome, because John was forced to acknowledge that it belonged to his friend, his best friend, and it was something he had been living with for a long time. For that reason, Sherlock's wounds were the most horrible and emotionally jarring wounds he had ever seen, the cold dread that settled over him as he watched Sherlock with regret and panic was seconded only to the overwhelming horror he had felt as he watched that same man fall to his apparent death

John no longer cared how Sherlock had received those wounds, he only cared that Sherlock explained why he had kept such a big secret from him- he was a bloody doctor for crying out loud. He could have at least made sure they were being cared for properly.

The door cracked open, and John turned to thank the nurse for his privacy, when he found himself face to face with none other than Mycroft Holmes, who despite his air of casual indifference, his eyes were for his brother, and his brother alone.

"For someone supposedly so clever, my dear brother can be so stubborn, wouldn't you agree John?"


	8. Chapter 8

Mycroft pulled out a handkerchief from his breast pocket to dab the side of his mouth, looking down with amusement at the single drop of blood he had collected. John had his hands buried deep within his pockets, his head hanging into his chest. He wasn't sure what had come over him, he had just been so angry, and he couldn't control himself from lashing out at the look of complete indifference Mycroft had worn while his keen eyes took in Sherlock's body. His fist had collided crisply with the corner of Mycroft's jaw before he had the chance to even consider exactly  _who_ he was punching. If rumours were to be believed, Mycroft was the single most important man in all of England, and definitely the most powerful.

"Sorry... again. About that" He gestured with his chin towards Mycroft's handkerchief, which he was already neatly folding up and placing back into his pocket.

"I can see why Sherlock is so fascinated by you" Mycroft smiled, a thin smile that refused to touch his eyes.

"Such a volatile mind, it must be interesting for him not to be able to read every move you make".

John allowed himself a quick glance at the mentioned man, sparing a wistful thought at what it would be like to understand everything Sherlock did, the way he always seemed to know with him.

"I think he reads me pretty well".

Mycroft continued to smirk. He walked briskly towards the only available chair in a way that drew all of John's attention, his every movement commanding respect and projecting power. As he sat down neatly, crossing one of his legs over the other, and twirling his umbrella in between his long fingers, Mycroft looked up at John in a way that still made him feel looked down upon, eyebrows raised in amusement.

"I wouldn't be so sure of that."

Mycroft was a man whose every sentence was a riddle. His entire character was an enigma, one which, try as he might, John could never seem to understand. The relationship between the Holmes boys was something John had long since given up trying to decipher. They had to care about each other surely, and yet he could never feel any affection exchanged between them. It reminded him of his sister Harry, who at times rubbed off on him the wrong way, and was always doing something which John found irritating and exasperating, but he did love her truly, and they had their moments. Moments between the Holmes boys consisted of them both petulantly butting heads in a childish feud concerning the testing of each other's intelligence.

"Well what are you doing here?" A thought struck John quickly, as he watched Mycroft obviously waiting for him to ask his next question. He knew he was nothing but a goldfish to Mycroft, who could see through the appearances of everyone and see directly into their minds. It was enough to make John feel incredibly uncomfortable. With Sherlock he was used to it, it felt good natured. With Mycroft, John felt as though he was under the microscope of a child who hadn't quite yet decided whether to examine him, or burn him alive.

"How did you know to be here?"

Mycroft tilted his head to one side, watching John with scrutiny.

"I'm a rather knowledgeable man John". Mycroft's voice was hushed, but it still carried the weighted tones of authority, and the barely concealed ring of offence.

"I have access to information you couldn't even comprehend."

John felt the anger begin to seep back into his blood. If Sherlock managed to piss him off in under five minutes, Mycroft was able to piss him off in under five seconds. John was not a man to respond well to hidden threats and condescension.

"Well what are you doing here then? Trying to prove how bloody clever you are?" John crossed his arms angrily, which earned from Mycroft a very loud and boisterous laugh. His thin lips stretched his face into a smile that seemed to feel more sinister than his scowl.

"Contrary to belief, John, I do happen to care a great deal about my dear brother's health. He's no use to England dead."

Mycroft continued to smirk in amusement, his fingers steepled under his chin.

"Did you really think skin grafts happen this fast? Some patients have to wait  _months_  until surgery is even an option, and even then it's not a certainty. Who do you think made this happen so fast?"

Mycroft spread his arms out wide, his chin lifted, his head slightly tilted. He was the picture of pride of self-satisfaction. John blinked several times in shock, and readjusted the placement of his crossed arms over his chest.

"You mean, you did this?" John gestured once around the room.

"Set up the surgery?"

Mycroft smiled, a dangerous glint to his steely eyes.

"You don't want to know where I found the replacement  _skin"._

John coughed into his fist and cleared his throat, unable to meet those flashing eyes.

"Yes, I suppose you're right. I don't. I really,  _really_  don't".

Mycroft leaned back in his chair, his fingers interwoven over his chest. His unsettling smile still lingered on his face, and John had to remind himself that Mycroft really was there for his brother, and not silently plotting his murder. It was something John needed to remember for future reference; warmth and affection on Mycroft's face also managed to look like he had just killed an entire family of bunnies and was incredibly pleased with himself.

"So do you know how it happened then? How Sherlock got hurt?"

John's attention was drawn back to his best friend, and he moved to be closer to Sherlock's side. It felt so strange talking about him while he was present, as though at any moment he could leap up and berate them for discussing his health, and insisting that he was completely and unobjectionable fine.

"Of course" Mycroft replied simply, his voice demure and smooth, the words spoken without any inflection.

"Can you tell me please" John replied, refusing to phrase his sentence as a question, exasperation at the older Holmes completely apparent in his words.

"I don't think Sherlock would like it very much if I did."

"Since when did you give a bloody damn what Sherlock liked and didn't like!" John erupted, barely able to keep his bottled up anger in check.

"And where's that nurse with my water?"

"I told her you wouldn't be needing it and that she was no longer needed here." The older Holmes informed him steadily.

"I preferred we didn't have company. I do so enjoy our little chats, John Watson."

The smirk was back, and it made John feel more frustrated than ever.

"So you won't tell me what happened?"

Mycroft's words were like silk, every line felt rehearsed it was so carefully planned out, each word chosen with meticulous care.

"I'll give my dear brother the opportunity to tell you himself, should he prefer you informed."

John wanted to roll his eyes, but withheld with much strength. Sherlock Holmes would never openly admit to having a cold, let alone whatever hell had been unleashed upon his back. But John would make him talk. He would not relent until he found out the truth, even if he had to resort to begging Mycroft for it. No doubt Mycroft would find some pleasure in how much it would irritate his brother, letting John know something Sherlock implicitly did not want him to find out.

But John _needed_  to know. It wasn't just idle curiosity, or friendly concern, it was an all-consuming need to figure out what had happened to his best friend, to try and understand why he had never told him about it. He needed Sherlock to know he thought he was a stupid twat who needed to learn how to ask for help, before he got himself killed out of sheer stubbornness.

John couldn't go through that again, he knew it. It had broken him the first time, but things were different now. It would completely destroy him. Now John knew he would constantly fear there was something he should have done. He reminded himself that Sherlock was not going to die this time, he was going to be fine, thanks to Mycroft. But what about the next time Sherlock tried to hide something from him? Or the time after that?

It needed to stop. Sherlock needed to learn to put some faith in at least one other person before his solidarity was the death of him. Sherlock needed to learn that John was willing to give up everything to be that person Sherlock could depend on.

John didn't speak to Mycroft again, who sat patiently by Sherlock's side. Together they waited until the surgeon arrived and wheeled Sherlock from the room.

Light began to glow through the hospital as dawn broke. John excused himself to the hallway where he made a couple of calls, first to Mary to explain where he was. She replied immediately with concern and regret, cursing that she hadn't noticed anything wrong with Sherlock either. John had to comfort her, assuring her there was no way she could have known, only slightly aware of how hypocritical it was for him to continue to blame himself. He then called Mrs Hudson, who dropped the phone in shock, and with a quick chirp promised she was already out the door and on her way. Molly and Lestrade were equally struck by regret and surprise. Molly had begun to cry and Lestrade had sworn angrily into his receiver about what a massive prick Sherlock could be. They both promised they would be there as soon as they could.

John was aware that Sherlock would hate to have so many people there when he came too, but John didn't care. He wanted Sherlock to feel uncomfortable and suffocated and surrounded.

He needed to prove to Sherlock just how many people cared about him.

And in some ways make up for all the times John had let him down.


	9. Chapter 9

Greg Lestrade was already completely awake before he received the call from John Watson that Sherlock Holmes was currently in the hospital. He had never been a very good sleeper, even as a child. He would try to close his eyes, but all he could think about was the panic in his mother's face as she opened the bills, or the father he was never allowed to see, locked away in a tiny padded cell. It was the troubles of other people that always kept Greg awake and worrying. He would try to solve everyone's problems but he never could, and it always left him feeling empty and incomparably insignificant.

His insomnia escalated after he joined Scotland Yard, as his life soon revolved around the constant stream of problems and concerns of other people. And resolution never meant closure, it always meant the opening of another door, another case, another person Greg had to usher into his life and do his best to make their worries disappear. However despite all of this, Greg loved his job. He loved helping people, making London safer, he loved looking into the eyes of a victim or a witness and assuring them that he would do everything within his power to make their life marginally better.

It helped too, of course, that letting himself become carried away with finding a murderer or tracking down bank robbers kept his mind from spinning late at night about the mother who had long since passed away, the father whose heart continued to beat but whose eyes never saw any sun, or the string of frustrated ex-wife's whose final words about "distance" and "married to your work" never quite shook from his mind.

The phone call with John lasted seconds. John explained the damage, the neglect, and asked in a forcibly casual voice if he had known any of this. Greg had assured John he had absolutely no clue, and had cursed Sherlock for being such a complete an utter arsehole. Sherlock never was one to accept any kind of help unless it was on his own terms, something that had long since grated on Greg's nerves.

Greg had been acquainted with Sherlock for close on a decade, ever since he was a young man freshly flunked out of college. It had taken him a while to notice the tall, gangly man in his early twenty's hovering around every crime scene he examined. Greg was used to there being crowds, there always were, people were strangely drawn to violent acts. But one particular man was always there, standing just behind the tape, taking in everything with an icy gaze.

"The victim's wife was the murderer."

It was the first thing Sherlock had ever said to him. Greg was recently promoted to the ranks of Detective Inspector, but he had been pushed into a case that was out of his depth. He turned to the man behind the tape, his collar turned up against the wind, his hands clasped behind his back. Back then Sherlock's face had been fuller and his voice had been higher, but he still spoke with all the conviction of a man who had been solving murders his entire life.

"Are you a witness son?" Greg had asked him gently, wondering if the lack of expression on the man's face was a result of post traumatic shock, having witnessed a murder that was incredibly clean, and all the more terrifying for it. But the strange man merely shook his head, the thick black curls which framed his face swaying heavily against his neck.

"If I'm right, the tips of her fingers should be discoloured."

"And what could possibly make you think you're right?" Greg had scoffed, but he folded his arms over her chest, trying to seriously consider that the woman who had come to him for help was actually the person he was looking for. He had no other leads, he might as well hear what the strange young man had to say.

"The way she's fidgeting with her necklace- that says anxiety rather than distress. Her husband's just died, so why is she nervous? I guarantee you Inspector if you search the house you'll find the pot plants are more than likely to be contaminated with cyanide."

The way he said this was so casual, so unassuming. His gaze never left the woman whose fingers were fidgeting with the string of pearls clasped loosely around her neck. If Greg squinted, he could see that the tips of her fingers were stained the faintest blue.

After that Sherlock's appearance at crime scenes became something Greg looked forward to, in a weird way. If he was having difficulty with a case, he could always rely on the man behind the tape to quickly provide him with answers. After a while, Greg began to feel a responsibility towards the man, whose name it took him three months to work out was ' _Sherlock Holmes'_ , who aspired to do nothing more than exercise his mind and prove the limits of his unmet intellect. The man was the same age as his son, a child born in a passionate throws of much younger days. Greg felt a particular tug of paternal instincts towards him, and after a while it even developed as far as trust. He trusted the stranger to step around the tape, he trusted the stranger to help him when he needed it, and he trusted Sherlock to be a good man.

It was around the same time that Greg learnt that his estranged son had been killed in Iraq that he began to notice that Sherlock Holmes was slipping. Maybe the signs had been there before, maybe he had just chosen to ignore them, but Greg saw them all too clearly now. He had not been able to save his own son, he had not been there for him at his breaking point, but he could save Sherlock Holmes. That was within his reach.

There were days where Sherlock would arrive at the crime scene, and his movements would be slower, less crisp. His eyes were glassy and less perceptive, his always distant mind seemed even further away. Sherlock was receding into himself, and Greg was the only one who noticed, or maybe he was just the only one who cared.

Greg pulled him aside during a case, one which he couldn't remember the exact details, but he did know that the case was never solved. Sherlock had winced as Greg's hand wrapped around his forearm which was deliberately covered with a thick woollen coat, despite it being the middle of summer. Greg knew now what lay hidden underneath those sleeves, what was running through his veins, and it broke Greg's heart to see how often Sherlock was beginning to turn to it.

"We don't need your help today Sherlock, go home"

Sherlock was violent when he was high, and more sharply tongued as well.

He had ranted and sworn, but Greg held his position. He would accept no help from Sherlock while he was drugged up. He would not be allowed on the scenes, his advice would not be taken into consideration. He was a liability, and liabilities were never allowed behind the tape. Sherlock had slunk away, still cursing under his breathe.

What followed was the long and messy process of weaning Sherlock off his addiction. Greg frequently arrived unannounced at the flat Sherlock was staying in, a small dive out on Northwick Close, to check on him and search for a stash. At those times Sherlock had been petulant and abusive, but Greg would not relent. He cared too much about the kid to just sit back and watch him destroy himself, no matter how many cases he had been able to solve while high.

Greg suspected Sherlock always resented him for that time he kept him idle. Seeing it as a punishment rather than an effort to preserve his well-being. Greg wasn't surprised Sherlock had never told him about the scars on his back, it was just like when he had hidden his injections.

Sherlock would not accept help.

And he would never trust anyone enough to ask for it.

Greg might have come to care for the kid but that didn't mean he didn't see that he was a complete wanker.

But still, when he had found out Sherlock was still alive he had hugged him tightly the way he had never been able to hug his son, and finding out Sherlock was in the hospital was like hearing about Iraq all over again.

While Greg knew that Sherlock never cared about him the way he cared about John, he hoped that Sherlock was at least mildly aware of how much he meant to him.

Arriving at St Bart's Greg found only John Watson and Mycroft Holmes waiting patiently in the sitting room. He nodded politely to both of them and sat down without saying a word, preparing to wait out the surgery in total silence, alone with his memories of the man who had always unknowingly provided him with what he needed at the time.

He had given him answers when he had none.

A person whose troubles to worry about when his second marriage fell apart.

And a son to care for when his own was gunned down.


	10. Chapter 10

Waking up felt like Resurrection.

He could feel his body slowly come back to him, each tremor of his muscles indicating a return of senses, an ignition of his nervous system. He could feel his arms coming alive, and tested them by trying to flex a finger, it was slow and unresponsive but he managed it in the end. His entire form felt rigid and stiff, as though partially turned to stone or ice and snow. But now heat ran through his veins, his heart beat increased, and his eyelids finally flicked open.

Blinding bright light immediately forced him to shut his eyes, he was aware of people talking around him, but their voices were dull and their words went over his head. His mind still felt fuzzy, but he tried despairingly to clutch at the last streams of consciousness he could remember before waking up.

The first image that came back to him was a dark room. Chains. Fire. Smoke. Blood.

Blinding pain and soundless screams.

Harsh words and quaking limbs.

He remembered escape, release, the sun in his eyes and the wind in his hair. The joy of returning to London, of re-establishing himself in her giant thrumming heartbeat.

He remembered John.

He remembered John hugging him.

" _I can't believe you're alive! I've missed you so much Sherlock!"_

" _I know John" …_

I can't believe you're alive.

I've missed you so much.

Sherlock.

No.

That hadn't happened. That was a dream, a memory of a fantasy. His mind had created for him that illusion to hold him through the loneliness and hopelessness he had felt in Serbia. He had clung to that false memory, preferring it over the real one. He had stored that illusion away in his mind for comfort, not caring that it took up valuable space in the capacity of his brain. He wanted to remember their reunion that way. He wanted to forget the other.

But he couldn't. John's fist smashed through his mind like a hurricane, tearing apart the false memory and ripping it to shreds. John had been angry, he had been furious, and it was only through trickery Sherlock was able to steal from him a confession of forgiveness.

His mind was wounded, his pride even more so. Like an injured dog he retreated even further into himself, away from his return, away from his torture. He took himself back, back as far as he could, to the one thing that kept him steady, the one thing that calmed him and always filled him with peace.

" _Hello Redbeard"_

_He scratched the dog behind its ears, his fingers were shorter, protruding from hands half the size he was used too. His childhood pet sniffed at his wrists, his wagging tail brushing gently on the marble floor._

" _Clever boy" Sherlock murmured, letting his fingers tangle themselves in Redbeard's auburn fur. His dog had bright eyes and a keen intuition, something Sherlock had always admired in him. He was more intelligent than anyone but Sherlock ever gave him credit for. Sherlock knew that he knew, Redbeard knew he was being put down. But all he had done was gently lick the side of Sherlock's face as though to say "its ok" or "you're going to be fine"._

_Sherlock had cried for months. He refused to interact with his family, and he snuck out to go wandering around the gardens at midnight. Redbeard was the only friend he had known as a child. His dog was trusting, and his love had no restrictions. Sherlock could always count on Redbeard to be there for him when he was sad or lonely or bored. When the neighbourhood boys teased him, stole his chemistry books, and kicked mud in his face, Redbeard was by his side, barking angrily and barring his teeth._

_Sherlock wished one day he could escape to the sea._

_He wouldn't have to ever see those neighbourhood boys again, or his brother who constantly scolded him and made him feel stupid. He would get on a ship with Redbeard and sail away, far away, and never return._

_And then Redbeard died._

_And Sherlock was once again, entirely and completely alone._

" _I miss you boy". Sherlock fingers still knotted themselves deep in Redbeard's fur, except this time he felt something, warm and thick, seeping from his skin. Sherlock's own back ached as he ran his fingers through Redbeard's fur, finding more scars and bruises and open wounds. His dog yelped as his fingers touched a particularly tender piece of skin, and he raced off. Sherlock watched him run, aware that his leg was crooked and one half of his rib cage was dented in._

_Even in Sherlock's mind, he hadn't been able to save his pet from the car that had hit him._

He couldn't heal things, just like he couldn't save people.

He couldn't even save himself.

He could hear the voices growing louder and stronger around him, pulling him back into his body. But he wasn't ready yet, he didn't want to open his eyes and return to a world where he was uncertain. In his mind he was always certain. He knew how everything worked, and he could bend and shape that knowledge to suit his interests should he so desire. But out there, he was never certain. He could be sure about a lot of things, he could extract a single murder from a crowd of faces in mere minutes, and he knew what everyone had for breakfast just by looking. But he could never be certain of his own personal worth.

Who would care if he died?

Who would cry at his grave?

John did.

" _Sherlock!"_

The voice was distant, it was so far aware he could barely hear it.

Did John truly care? Sherlock didn't know. John had been so absent since his wedding. He had a wife, a child on the way, why would he want to spend his time with a sociopath like him? Crime scenes were his Christmas, and Christmas itself was an agonizing burden. His idea of fun was examining murder scenes and conducting experiments on severed limbs and organs. He was rude and obnoxious, he took everyone around him for granted. Why on earth would John want to spent time with him?

" _Sherlock!"_

The voice was getting louder, more insistent.

But John had said such nice things at the wedding. He had hugged him, and it was like his false memory. Those warm arms had provided comfort and support and a recognition of his fear. He had told Sherlock that he was his best friend. But why? Why would John care about the sad man who uses cases to distract him from his addictions, and a guise of sociopathic behaviour to hide how much the opinions and words of others affected him?

But John had never once been cruel.

He was always so quick to offer praise, and bring him down a peg when he was getting too caught up in his own head.

He risked his life for him.

Saved his life more than once.

Against all logic that John should have ran from him upon their first meeting, he stayed. Why would he do that? Why would John even bother anymore?

" _Come on Sherlock wake up."_

Light pressure on his hand.

The voice now crisp and clear.

" _You're my best friend."_

His heartbeat quickened.

His senses flared.

" _Just wake up Sherlock."_

He could see light under his eyelids.

His body felt new.

" _I've missed you so much"_

He opened his eyes.


	11. Chapter 11

When Sherlock's eyes opened John felt his chest sag in relief.

He knew Sherlock was going to be ok, but he could still feel himself growing more anxious as the surgery stretched out and the hours ticked slowly by. He felt himself growing more and more frustrated at everyone around him, but mostly he could feel the responsibility and the guilt gnawing away at him. If only he had been more attentive, if only he had bothered to ask Sherlock about the things he had done in those two years he had been dead. If only.

But when Sherlock's eyes flicked open, the icy gaze somehow managing to be immediately piercing, even though they must have been bleary, all of John's bitterness receded quickly to a dark corner of his mind. The relief he felt was so palpable, John knew Sherlock would see right through it and criticise him for being so illogical, but he didn't mind.

He jumped to his feet, his hand tightening over Sherlock's.

"Thank God! Sherlock are you ok?"

Those cold blue eyes were scanning the room, taking in the faces of everyone there. Mycroft had slipped out the moment the surgeon had informed them his work was finished without a hitch, proving to John again, that there were limits when it came to the Holmes' brotherly affection. Mycroft insisted he wanted to forgo the "messy reunion", and that he had more important things to do than to sit around waiting for his brother to wake up. John secretly thought he was just uncomfortable being surrounded by all the people who cared about his little brother. John wondered absently if Mycroft actually had any friends at all that would sit vigil by his bedside if anything were to happen to him. The sad truth, he concluded, was that there was probably no one who cared about Mycroft the way people cared about his brother. John didn't know whether to feel sympathetic of not, maybe Mycroft preferred it that way.

Sherlock sure seemed too.

"What the  _hell_ are you all doing here?"

He snapped, his voice loaded with venom. Mrs Hudson jumped back at the hostility and let out a small surprised gasp of " _Sherlock!"_ Molly Hooper, who had arrived flustered with a bunch of flowers, reached forward quickly to take Mrs Hudson's hands in her own, and shot Sherlock a look that seemed to demand his immediate apology. Greg Lestrade merely crossed his arms and rolled his eyes as though his first words were not in the least bit unexpected. John knew that Lestrade had pulled Sherlock out of some bad situations before he had come along, he supposed Greg was used to the lack of gratitude.

"Well, we all care about you, don't we?" John stated simply, ignoring Sherlock's scoff.

"Flowers Molly? Really? Take them to your Aunt, she's ill isn't she?" Sherlock threw back, staring disgustedly at the bunch of flowers Molly was holding. John knew where she had gotten them, a fancy floral boutique several blocks from the Hospital, but she'd quickly cut off the tag before bringing them into the room. He suspected she didn't want Sherlock to know just how much she had spent on them. They were such beautiful yellow roses, they stood out like rays of sunshine against her plain white lab coat. She hadn't even bothered to slip it off before rushing over to sit at his bedside.

Molly didn't say a word about his comment, just placed the flowers gently on the counter, turning them so the clipped off tag was visible to the bedside. She did it deliberately to get inside Sherlock's head, as a small form of retaliation.

"Yellow roses always make me feel happy." She said softly, refusing to make eye contact with anyone in the room. Her voice was steady, but John could see how much each word was a struggle.

"I'm really happy you're ok Sherlock. But I need to go back to work."

Molly finally looked up from where her fingers where toying with the petals of a particularly large rose, and smiled a small, closed smile.

"If you need me I'll be in the morgue. But you won't need me, will you Sherlock? You don't need anyone."

The door closed a little louder than any of them had anticipated. Sherlock gazed after the closed door and retreating white lab coat with a creased brow deep in thought. He was so wrapped up in his own mind it took John several attempts at calling his name to get a response.

"Well that was rude." He told him bluntly. Sherlock blinked a few times, then nodded quickly to himself.

"Yes. Quite. The slamming door could have upset other patients."

John pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.

"No, Sherlock. No. You. You were rude. To Molly."

Sherlock glanced up, his mind racing like he couldn't process the information fast enough. A slight questioning tilt to his head made John think that maybe Sherlock really couldn't comprehend just how much of an impact the things he said had on other people. Especially the people who had gathered in that room with nothing but hopeful hearts and silent wishes for the man in the hospital bed to be alright.

"She just wanted to make sure you were ok. Bloody hell, are you that ignorant?"

"Why would she need to see that I'm ok? Clearly I'm ok". The tone of Sherlock's voice was so honest and naïve. He truly didn't understand the answer to his question.

"Clearly". John retorted bitterly.

"You're mad. Why are you mad?"

"I'm not mad. I'm exhausted." John flexed his hands in his pockets, and glanced over his shoulder to see Lestrade, still waiting patiently in the corner of the room. Sherlock hadn't even acknowledged his presence yet, but a look into Greg's eyes and John knew he didn't expect him to. Mrs Hudson was arranging Molly's flowers in a vase she had found in the cupboard, her back was to Sherlock's bed but John could see her fingers were shaking. They all cared so much about a man who didn't make it a habit to show them he appreciated it. The only time Sherlock had ever made John feel a reciprocation of his friendship was at his wedding, but that had been a different time, a different mood, when Sherlock believed he was losing John forever.

Did he still feel that way? Maybe his dismissive attitude was a way to test them. John sighed in exasperation.

"We've all been here a long time Sherlock. I haven't slept. I've been so  _worried_  about you."

"Don't you have jobs to do or something?" Sherlock replied, his underscored meaning being that none of their jobs were particularly important.

"Scotland Yard, isn't there a triple homicide you should be sweating over this second?"

There he went again, dismissing every notion that people cared about him. John decided that maybe Sherlock was much more damaged than he was letting on, and covering it up with insults and bravado. It was exactly the sort of thing he would do, covering up his weaknesses so he would seem invincible. It was going to kill him one day, John knew it.

"You're more important to me than that son of a bitch" Greg spoke in a clipped voice, not letting any emotion seep into his tones. It was such a gruff way to say it, but John could tell it was the only way Greg knew how to tell Sherlock that he loved him. It would have been a touching moment if it hadn't been directed at a man whose instincts when confronted with affection was to quickly throw up walls of indifference lined with arrogance and condescension.

"And that's why you've failed to solve half of your cases this year, Gavin."

"It's Greg." He growled, and waving Sherlock off with a quick nod to John, left the room the same way as Molly.

"Back to work then, I suppose."

The door shut even louder this time, and John closed his eyes as though it could lessen the reverberation. Sherlock's party of friends were slowly diminishing. Only Mrs Hudson remained, still tinkering with the flowers, occasionally glancing behind her to meet John's eyes and smile sadly. He realised that she must know, that Mrs Hudson must see through Sherlock to the fragile heart that he could see. The only reason why Mrs Hudson wasn't leaving like the rest of them was because she knew that this was the way he defended himself against situations that made him uncomfortable. John had wanted Sherlock to feel overwhelmed by the people who cared for him, but instead Sherlock had succeeded in making two of them storm out, and one of them refuse to be there in the first place. He should have seen it coming.

"We're going to talk about this Sherlock." John folded his arms over his chest.

"I'm not going anywhere, you're not going anywhere. You're going to tell me what's happened to you."

"Don't you have a wife to get back to?" Sherlock asked absently, his slender fingers playing with the controls of his morphine, switching it all the way down to zero.

"Mary can live without me for a day. I can't say the same about you." He raised his eyebrows, his statement phrased as an accusation.

"I don't know what you're talking about John." Sherlock replied stiffly, his hand tightening by his side.

"I think you know exactly what I'm talking about. Why did you never tell me about any of this?" John gestured at the hospital bed and the large bandage wrapped tightly around Sherlock's torso, holding in the piece of gauze that was laid over his healing back.

"Because John." Sherlock sighed.

"I was afraid".


	12. Chapter 12

"Because John, I was afraid."

He hadn't meant to say that. Why had he said that? Sherlock clenched his teeth together, but there was no way he could remove those words that hung so obviously in the air. There was silence, John was staring at him with a look of disbelief, and even Mrs Hudson had turned to face him, her mothering eyes filled with sympathy. It made Sherlock's stomach twist. He could never understand sympathy, he never saw any logic in feeling apologetic for the misfortunes of others, particularly if it had nothing to do with the sympathetic. Let the misfortunate deal with their misfortunes, never encroach upon their privacy and probable desire to keep it hidden.

Sherlock realised that he was placed in a position where all of his power lay on his tongue, but he was used to that. His quick wit and scathing vocabulary had come in handy growing up with a brother who loved to make him feel inferior. Over the years he had refined his craft, he knew just what to say to hide behind locked doors his darkest secrets. And yet somehow they always came out. But never before had he been the one to divulge his own inner wounds.

He remembered when Lestrade had picked up on his addictions. That had been an awful time for him, having the older man always hovering at his elbow, stalking out his house. He had refused to let him work any cases, and Sherlock supposed he had always felt as though Lestrade had made him feel so weak and inferior on purpose. It was what Mycroft had done.

When his brother had first come across Sherlock's stash of cocaine, hidden expertly under the floorboards of his closet, the first thing he had done was lock Sherlock in his closet and screamed at him for being so stupid. Sherlock was sixteen years old, his brother twenty three. He had felt trapped and exposed at the same time, but he had shouted back that Mycroft needed an intervention on his addiction to pudding, and that had made him open the door.

Mycroft was red in the face, sweat beading on his brow. His lungs were inflating and deflating rapidly as he was breathing through his nose heavily. It was the first time Sherlock could remember Mycroft being at a loss for words, he was always so eloquent. He had gathered up Sherlock's stash and taken it, shooting a look of disgust over his shoulder as he left. Sherlock had remained standing in his closest, his secret hiding spot cracked open like an ugly scar, all his dirty secrets streaming out. Mycroft had tried to stop him, but he couldn't. Everything Mycroft said, Sherlock had to do the opposite, it was the way he was raised. He was so used to Mycroft's disapproval that he felt he subconsciously sought it out. It was much preferable to the other option. He couldn't stand the thought of having a real brotherly connection with the man who always made him feel vulnerable.

When Lestrade had found out about his recreational drug use, it wasn't much different. There had been shouting, his possessions had been ransacked, he could feel those beady eyes watching every move he made and turning him away every time he tried to show up at a crime scene.

One time he had been having a particularly bad afternoon. His fingers were twitching uncontrollably, his mind had been running in double time, and he just wanted to shut it off. He wanted to think, to really see his surroundings the way the drug helped him see. But all he could think about was how long it had been since his last hit. He needed clarity, he craved it so badly. Sherlock had gone down to the station to see Lestrade, prepared to beg to be put on a case if he needed to. And, he thought, breaking into evidence would be easy enough, and he knew he could find a hit in there. But then he saw Lestrade's face, the way he could identify the exact moment his mouth had twisted in disappointment as his eyes registered how strung out Sherlock was. He felt a weight come down on him, the weight of expectations. Lestrade had expected him to be a better man than he was, and that thought made Sherlock feel more pensive than he had in a while. He thought that maybe he really should try to clean himself up, to make sure he never saw that look of disappointment again. He could deal with Mycroft's anger with a sharply barbed tongue, but disappointment sent him flinging backwards, struggling to find which walls would be suitable to throw up in his defence. He couldn't figure out what to do to prevent anyone from seeing any outbreak of emotion from him. But he knew he never wanted any of them to see any of it, it was his deepest and darkest wound. Lestrade's disappointment left him without any walls, he had no defence, only the ugly gapping scar of a secret need for validation and approval. Two things he was deprived of in his youth. He was ready to break down, to plead for Lestrade's help.

But then Lestrade's face had tuned bitter. He ordered Sherlock away, cursing under his breath. Sherlock's walls were immediately redrawn, his hidden wound tucked away in the darkest corners of his self, and with dignity and indifference he had retorted with a harsh comment about Lestrade's inadequacy as a detective, and dangled a clue about how to solve the case under his nose with no further explanation of answer.

That was the way Sherlock had always navigated situations that made him uncomfortable. He built walls around his wounds, he hid his scars, he pushed people away so they would never see the truth. They could never see how badly Sherlock wished he could be better.

But Sherlock's walls were crumbling, and he could feel it ever since Serbia. The prison in which he had hidden his fears had broken free from his seeping wounds, laid into his skin by his ruthless torturer.

"What are  _you_  afraid of?" John asked, any harshness in his voice seemed to be directed internally rather than at Sherlock. It was like a nightmare that he couldn't wake up from. He didn't want to be there, he didn't want to feel so exposed and vulnerable and have to discuss his feelings like he was a normal person. Because then John would realise just how damaged he was, and that he didn't think there was any way he could be put back together.

His wounds had festered, and not just his physical scars. The scars on his mind from a childhood of neglect, of having any feelings or emotions he ever displayed immediately criticized by his older brother, had ripped holes inside of him that he could never fill. Cocaine had taken the ache away, solving cases had distracted his mind, but his wounds were always there, rubbing away at the edges of his mentality. He was damaged, and that was his biggest secret. The shame he had hidden away, the only thing he was ever afraid of.

Sherlock Holmes never asked anyone for help.

Because he had never believed he had ever deserved it.


	13. Chapter 13

"Sherlock?" John asked tentatively. His friend had seemed to close himself off to the world, and was currently lying in the hospital bed, his eyes wide and staring, but the vacant cast to his expression showed he wasn't truly aware of everything that was happening around him. It was very similar to the way Sherlock had acted after John had asked him to be his best man, only this time Sherlock's gaze was not directed at him, it seemed to be focused more inward, as though something in his mind had taken his complete and full attention.

"Talk to me Sherlock, what are you afraid of?"

There was no response, no sign to show that he had even heard the question. He had thrown up his walls and was not letting John inside, secretly hiding away something he didn't want anyone to see. John felt frustrated and impatient, only Sherlock Holmes would be so infuriatingly uncommunicative. John had so many questions, so many things he wanted the wounded man to answer for. They had never talked about the things Sherlock had done in those two years after his fall, Sherlock had never brought it up, and John had never pushed it because a part of him had not wanted to know. If he had to listen to all the incredible cases, the murders, the villains he had encountered, John would find it difficult to remain satisfied with the way he had spent those two years grieving the death of the man he had considered his best friend.

But in the face of those ugly wounds, and the way Sherlock had guarded them from him so fiercely, John realised that those two years were something that they needed to talk about. Something had changed in his best friend, and John had been too unfocused to notice. He had missed every sign that something was wrong, content to believe that their glory days had returned. But they never had, and Sherlock must have known that. John needed to know where Sherlock had been, and the things he had seen. He wanted to sit down and hear about how Sherlock had received those monstrous injuries, and why he had never brought them up. John would have been there for Sherlock the moment the younger man had even suggested he needed him there, but that was never Sherlock's style.

John believed Sherlock to be too arrogant, too self-involved to ever want the help from others. Sherlock had always made him feel so unneeded, and at times even unwanted. But John had always been ready to lay down his life for the greatest man he had ever known, and Sherlock had always done the same. They depended on each other, so John had no idea why Sherlock was keeping secrets from him, especially of this magnitude. The conclusion he came too was that Sherlock refused to be seen as weak. But everyone needed someone to pick them up every once in a while. Even high functioning sociopaths, as John believed Sherlock to be.

The silence dragged on, despite John's constant attempts to start a conversation. He asked Sherlock if his back was hurting, or if he wanted anything to eat at all. He asked Sherlock what had happened to his back, and if he wanted to talk about it. John sat by Sherlock's bed side, asking every question he could think of, but nothing seemed to break through the barrier that he had raised around himself, blocking out everything in the small plain hospital room. Mrs Hudson eventually realised that there was nothing she could do to help, and seemed aware that John wanted to be left alone with him, so she left the Hospital after squeezing John's shoulders and telling him gently that he knew what Sherlock was like, and that if John was patient and gave him time he'd eventually come around. John was grateful for her advice, but he had no intention of following it. He couldn't be patient when it seemed like Sherlock was slipping, and the last time that had happened, the things that Sherlock had done and said had absolutely terrified him.

After Irene Adler had supposedly died, Sherlock had retreated so far into himself that John felt as though he had ceased to exist. He had moped around the flat, opening doors and staring into rooms without saying a word and then moving on. He would lie on the couch for days, not eating, not moving, just staying at the roof and occasionally pulling out his phone and rereading all of her messages, devouring them with hungry eyes. John would be woken up in the early hours of the morning to the screeching of Sherlock's violin, playing a melody that was out of tune and poorly executed. Sherlock didn't seem to notice how awful it sounded, he just kept playing, the notes hauntingly eerie and spine chillingly daunting. He had started smoking again, and when that wasn't enough John had once caught him completely off his mind on cocaine. John had been so frustrated with his flatmate by this point that his response was less delicate than he would have liked. He said words that he regretted, Sherlock had pinned him against the wall and twisted his arm. It was something they let slide, and never talked off again. But it was the first time Sherlock had even acknowledged John since the body had been found, so John supposed his negative reaction had at least gotten through to him somehow. Either way, John had never caught Sherlock high since, so something must have changed inside of him.

But nothing he did was cracking that barrier now. Sherlock had closed himself off, every word John said seemed to go unheard, it was as though he was trapped in his mind, preoccupied with something only he could see or hear, that John could only guess at. He was beginning to feel incredibly concerned, and leaned forward and placed his hand over Sherlock's own, in the hopes that it would finally catch his attention.

Sherlock flinched, his hand drew back, his head turned to look at John with eyes that seemed to pass right through him, as though he wasn't even there.

"Sherlock?" John asked quietly, hoping that this was the breakthrough he was holding his breath for. Sherlock's silence was worrying because there were so many dark parts to him that John could not even comprehend. There was very little John knew about Sherlock's life before he became a part of it, and the things Sherlock must have been through to make him the way he was troubled John constantly.

"I don't want your help John."

His silence was broken, but the words made John's gut twist.

"Too bloody bad, because you're going to get it anyway." He replied with a level voice. Sherlock continued to stare, his expression twisting into something John would recognise as sadness, if it wasn't Sherlock's face the twisted mouth and downcast eyes belonged to. His silence resumed, and with a sigh John rose to his feet and shuffled out the door.

He sought out a doctor to check that everything with the surgery had went ok, and to discuss what would happen after Sherlock's release. The hospital wanted to keep him with them for a few days to monitor his recovery, and keep an eye on the treatment of his wounds. John asked politely how long he was allowed to stay, to which the doctor told him as long as he wanted, really. Sherlock was an unusual case, he explained, and that the hospital had permission from higher powers to allow Sherlock any comfort he wished. John sighed, his thoughts immediately turned to Mycroft, who cared more for his little brother than any one seemed to believe.

John thanked him, and began to return to Sherlock's room, trying to figure out if there was anything he could say to make Sherlock talk to him. Despite what Sherlock seemed to believe, John was not going to give up until he got answers. He would make Sherlock talk about what he was afraid of, and he would force the man to see that confiding in someone about his feelings was not the end of the world, and that the issue he had about accepting help from others needed to be worked out. John refused to sit idly by, while his best friend destroyed himself by trying to take on the world alone. He wasn't going to let that happen.

With that resolution, John pushed open the door to Sherlock's room, only to find that the machine had been unplugged, and the bed was empty.

Sherlock Holmes was gone.


	14. Chapter 14

" _Sherlock, where are you? Mummy and Daddy are going to be so cross!" The voice of his elder brother seemed to thunder around the room, Sherlock, hiding crouched under the table, did his best to cover his mouth with the sleeve of a shirt he hadn't grown into. But Mycroft was much too clever, the tablecloth that was Sherlock's only barrier of protection against the outside world was whipped away, and the acne covered face of a sneering Mycroft Holmes appeared level with Sherlock's cowering form._

" _Please don't tell them!" Sherlock whimpered, wrapping those too long sleeves around his brother's forearm desperately._

" _Help me Mikey!"_

_Mycroft raised his eyebrows in amusement at his little brother, swamped in his hand me downs. Their mother's favourite vase in pieces beside him. Sherlock had tried to stick it back together with paste, which was smeared all over his face and all over his shirt._

" _Don't be such an idiot Sherlock."_

_The six year old sniffed, doing his best not to start crying. It was an accident, he hadn't meant to break the vase, but he had been playing pirates with his new puppy and things had gotten out of his control. Redbeard had started to get very excited, his energy leeching from the young boy who was jumping from pieces of furniture and brandishing a stick at the portraits hanging on the wall. Redbeard's eyes were watching the stick keenly, never letting it out of his sight, his entire head moving to follow Sherlock around the room, and when Sherlock was locked in a dangerous confrontation with a framed photograph of his great uncle Arthur, Redbeard had jumped up eagerly to join in. The vase had shattered as it hit the floor, the fragmented pieces flying in all directions. Redbeard let out a yelp and dashed from the room, leaving Sherlock alone surrounded by the broken shards of china, and a passing Mycroft only had to hear the crack to know what had happened._

" _Please help me fix it!"_

_Mycroft shook his head, and stepped away from the table, clasping his hands behind his back in the posture he had adopted after starting his new High School, a high class academy out in the countryside._

" _There's no fixing it, you've broken it beyond repair."_

_Sherlock couldn't stop himself, he started to bawl. Once the tears started, he couldn't seem to restrain them. They fell unbidden down his cheeks, and he used the long sleeves of his shirt to wipe his eyes while his brother watched him with an unaffected gaze._

" _Quit crying! You stupid little boy."_

_Mycroft tutted and walked out of the room, his hands in his pockets, leaving a sobbing Sherlock still sitting underneath the table, the pieces of the broken vase scattered around him. It took him a while to control himself, and bring himself to crawl out from his hiding place. The ends of his sleeves where covered in tears and paste, and the material hanged around his knees, making Sherlock feel so small and so insignificant._

_Their mother noticed the missing vase the moment she came home, and Sherlock confessed with a hanging head and drooping curls to what he and Redbeard had done. There was no anger in her eyes, only disappointment as she sent Sherlock to his room for the rest of the afternoon. With his eyes averted in shame, he ran upstairs to the one place in that house that he felt safe and shut the door, but Mycroft was sitting on his bed, his fingers intertwined on his lap._

" _Go away!" Sherlock shouted at him angrily, tears springing to his eyes again as he remembered his older brothers words, '_ Stupid little boy' _._

" _There was nothing I could have done little brother. The vase was well and truly broken". Mycroft stated simply, watching Sherlock's scrunched up face fight to hold in its tears._

_It was weeks before Sherlock even acknowledged Mycroft's existence again. He had felt so betrayed by his older brother, and it wasn't the first time he was told he was stupid. Sherlock had begun to believe it too, his brother seemed to know everything about everything, whereas he couldn't even remember the names of the planets. He felt so defeated every time his mother tried to teach him again about basic astronomy, he just couldn't comprehend something that was so far away, and that he couldn't see or feel with his own hands. He sulked sullenly as his mother asked him again what the centre of the universe was, and he was still unable to reply._

_Sherlock had an unusual family dynamic. Knowledge was regarded as power, and from a very young age Sherlock was taught by his mother all kinds of things any normal six year old had never even dreamed of learning. Their father was often considered a running joke, because of how simple minded he was in comparison to their mother, and to Mycroft. Sherlock wished he could have spent more time with him, but he was often away on trips to Scotland for business. Sherlock was left alone with his mother, who took it upon herself to teach Sherlock about math and science, and with his brother, who insulted his progress every step of the way._

_What Sherlock hated learning about the most was astronomy. He grew to love mathematics and physics, he relished in biology and chemistry, but astronomy was something he could never wrap his head around. The knowledge seemed to have no use in the present, he could not think of a single purpose for any of the information his mother tried to feed him. Sherlock's feet were placed firmly on the ground, never daring to dream any further than what he could observe with his own eyes. But still, his mother had pushed it, and Sherlock knew he needed help to make her happy with him._

" _Mikey?" His small voice asked, knocking timidly on his older brother's door._

_Mycroft's room was unlike any other normal thirteen year old boy's room. The bed was made impeccably, and all of his clothes were folded neatly in drawers and hanging tidily in his closest. There were no toys, no memorabilia, nothing of any personal value anywhere in the room. His desk was stacked with a tender dedication, his school books neatly organised and arranged as though Mycroft was displaying them out of pride. Mycroft himself was seating at a desk chair in the corner, his legs folded, and a large book on politics sitting on his knee._

" _Stop calling me Mikey, Sherlock. I am not a child" he sighed, and closed his book dramatically as though Sherlock's interruption was such a terrible burden and inconvenience._

" _What do you want?"_

_Sherlock was wringing his hands, he hated asking his brother for help. That time with the vase was not the first time Mycroft had refused to do something for Sherlock, he was always so busy with his schoolwork, or else he just never seemed to care._

_When Sherlock had gone to Mycroft about the little boy next door stealing his pirate hat, Mycroft had simply told Sherlock that the boy had done him a favour, and he was getting too old for that nonsense._

_Sherlock had gone to Mycroft when he had nightmares about shadows breaking free from the walls and carrying him away, and expected his brother to comfort him, to chase away the bad dreams with a piece of advice or even the slightest bit of affection. But Mycroft had merely told Sherlock to stop being so childish, and that the shadows couldn't take him away but that there were real people in the world who loved to kidnap small children who constantly annoyed their older siblings._

_Sherlock had stopped going to Mycroft for help after that, knowing that he would never receive it. But he wanted to understand astronomy so badly, that he only had one option._

" _Can you teach me about the planets?" Sherlock asked quietly, hesitating in the doorway. He had never stepped a foot inside Mycroft's room, knowing that he would be yelled at immediately._

" _You're too stupid to understand" Mycroft said in a voice that was almost gentle._

" _I'm not stupid!" Sherlock cried out, he could feel those tears in his eyes again, and a look at Mycroft and Sherlock knew he saw them too._

" _You're a stupid little boy, and you will never understand astronomy, so why would I waste my time trying to teach you? It would be like trying to teach your dog how to read." Mycroft raised his book again, opening it to the page he was at with finality. Sherlock lingered, watching his older brother with a mixed feeling of anger and respect._

" _I'm not stupid". He repeated again, trying to convince himself more so than Mycroft. His brother looked up from his book briefly, and frowned to see Sherlock still in his doorway, his frown deepened as he spotted the fresh tear on his cheek._

" _If you didn't cry as much I would believe you more." He returned to his book, and Sherlock slowly closed the door. He stopped trying to learn about astronomy after that, he closed it out from his mind forever._

_Sherlock Holmes believed from a very young age that asking for help only ever got him insults, his intelligence questioned, and his emotions criticized._

_He stopped believing his brother would be there for him when he needed him, and since Sherlock had no other friends but a dog that stood as a reminder of a shattered dream of being a pirate, he felt as though he could never trust anyone to be on his side when he needed someone in his corner._

_No one held him through his nightmares, or comforted him through his pain._

_When Sherlock would get cuts and scrapes from exploring the gardens and fields out the back of the house, Sherlock would come inside and bandage up his own wounds._

_He hid how upset it made him, the loneliness, but he soon grew accustomed to it, and even began to enjoy his solitude. While he was alone, no one was able to make him feel weak or stupid or a burden._

_Sherlock Holmes never asked for help from anyone ever again._


	15. Chapter 15

" _Dickhead_ "

John Watson cursed and quickly strode from the room. He hadn't been gone for more than five whole minutes before Sherlock Holmes had managed to vanish out from underneath him like a translucent, arrogant, mirage. Everything Sherlock Holmes did had an air of mystery, he could disappear into the shadows as easily as he could spot a smoker from their fingertips or an alcoholic from their phone. Sometimes John wondered how such a man could exist, who seemed appear to walk through walls and see into everyone's minds. But he never once doubted that Sherlock Holmes was anything less than a genius, so the idea of him slipping out of the hospital was not as surprising as it was irritating.

John had been specifically informed that Sherlock's stitches were fragile, and he was to avoid sudden movement. Sherlock had been kind enough to leave the window open for John, showing him in a way that seemed almost deliberate that he had defied every concern for his safety, and had literally jumped out of the window. John rushed around to the front of the Hospital, looking for any trail that he could follow, any clue that would lead him to the world famous detective who was currently running around London wearing nothing but a backless surgical gown.

But Sherlock had left behind no trace, no markers of direction, so with a heavy heart John could do nothing but hail a cab, head back to Baker Street, and prepare himself for the inevitable phone calls to Lestrade and Mycroft, letting them know that Sherlock had slipped through his fingers like fine grains of sand.

John could feel the tangible panic rising in his chest, the closer his cab got to the home he once shared with Sherlock. Together they had built a life, based around the adventures of two men who got kicks out of things they really shouldn't. They giggled at crime scenes, and somehow they managed to co-exist without irritating the other too much. While John knew that Sherlock was incapable or unwilling to forge lasting acquaintances with people, Sherlock had made an effort for him. He had eventually stopped complaining about John's shows on the telly, and he stopped criticising John's reading choices and spoiling the endings to every book he tried to immerse himself in. Sherlock had started to eat the food John placed in front on him in the evenings, and the two of them would sit companionably in their lounge discussing a case or a particular piece of current events.

But Sherlock never opened up to John, and never confided anything to him in regards to feelings or personal history. John had to speculate about the kind of childhood Sherlock had, or the reason for his particular brand of work. John still had no idea if Sherlock had ever had a girlfriend or a boyfriend, or any kind of friend really until he arrived. Friends were supposed to tell each other about the personal stuff, but Sherlock always grew tight lipped and vacant the moment John tried to turn the conversation around to him.

John had done his own fair share of talking. He found Sherlock was a real comfort to open up to about Afghanistan. He was the only person in the entire world who understood that John did, somehow, enjoy the simplicity of it. The world was raw and primal when he was out there, fighting for his life every day, gun in hand, knowing he had the power to put a bullet in a man's brain and end his existence entirely. It was a part of John that he couldn't quite rationalise to himself, no sane person would think of his experience with a sense of longing and nostalgia, but somehow John could. It wasn't that he enjoyed the killing, it was that he knew he was in a position where he was able to, and that sent a strange shiver through his blood when he remembered the adrenaline that had once pumped through his veins. When every second may be your last, you savour every beat of your heart. Every moment becomes precious, and John frequently missed the feeling that knowledge gave him, like the world was conquerable so long as he kept breathing, kept fighting, kept overcoming every obstacle that stalked him in the shadows of that foreign land. He couldn't explain that feeling to anyone else, but Sherlock understood, he understood and he didn't judge. They suited each other on that level, and John remembered those talks about Afghanistan with fondness.

But the two of them had drifted apart after Sherlock had died, and given John a new perspective on death. He had once thought them both invincible. They had stood together against Moriarty's explosives and had walked away with nothing but shaking fingers and sweat covered brows. They faced the world with an unspoken promise that they could defeat any foe, stand up to any danger, and always walk away unmarred. And then Sherlock had died, and John was struck but how reckless they had been, how arrogant. There were only so many times they could pass between them a loaded gun without it firing. And Sherlock's luck had run dry, the roulette landed on him, and John watched him die. Sherlock's death had scarred John, and left him with wounds he couldn't close.

Sherlock's return had shaken him to the core, but he was left with the knowledge that Sherlock was breakable, that he would not endure when the world was reduced to ash, and that terrified him more than anything. Maybe that was why John couldn't let himself return to their life of neglecting their own safety, he could never neglect Sherlock's safety again.

Something had broken between them, there was no returning to their glory days, the days of chasing villains through the night, and setting aside their instincts of preservation in order to pursue the case with full throttle. Sherlock's fall and Sherlock's scars forced John to re-evaluate his own desire for danger in comparison to how much the other man meant to him. And Sherlock's safety was more important, as it always should have been.

Whatever was broken in their friendship needed to be reconstructed, replaced and stitched back together like the skin on Sherlock's back with something healthier and less damaged. A friendship where Sherlock knew he could tell John about the things that troubled him, and didn't feel the need to close him out.

John's cab pulled into the curb outside Baker Street, and John felt his heart stop.

Sherlock Holmes was sitting on the front steps, a blanket he must have stolen from the hospital wrapped around his body. John was out of the cab and throwing himself at Sherlock within seconds. Sherlock tensed against John's hug, but he didn't pull away. John realised too late that he may have been hurting him, so he quickly withdrew himself and let his eyes skim over the man in a quick assessment. Sherlock was pale and gaunt, his eyes wary and questioning, his jaw clenched tightly like the white knuckles which gripped the blanket as though it was his last line of defence against the world.

"Don't you ever do that again" John ran a hand through his hair, trying to steady his pounding heart, the relief he felt made him feel slightly unbalanced.

"I'm serious Sherlock, I was so worried about you."

Sherlock glanced down at John with an inquiring expression, his face looking as exhausted and drawn as it had in the hospital.

"Come on, let's get you inside, you'll give Mrs Hudson a heart attack looking like that." John prompted gently when it looked as though Sherlock wasn't willing to move. In response he shook his head, and nodded towards the door knocker, which was hanging perfectly straight against the door of 221B.

"I'm not going inside. I have company."


	16. Chapter 16

Sherlock Holmes drew the blanket closer around his shoulders, refusing to meet his companion's eyes. Once John realised that Sherlock was still unwilling to move, he hesitantly took a seat next to him on the front steps, watching the road with a deliberately casual gaze, however unable to hide that his entire body was tensed with concern.

After leaving the hospital Sherlock had wanted to return to the one place he had felt safe, where the positive memories outweighed the negative ones. He knew that John would find him there eventually, it wouldn't take a genius to consider he would return to Baker Street. Even Lestrade would have been able to guess it. But Sherlock didn't mind being found, a small part of him had hoped for it. However, when he had made it back to his familiar flat, the doorknocker glared at him accusingly, hanging perfectly straightened against the aged wood.

Whenever Sherlock left the flat, he made a point of flicking it slightly askew. He could never explain why he started doing it, it was something he had being doing since he first moved into his own place, a hovel out on Northwick Close. Maybe it was because he simply could, he was away from his compulsively organised brother, and their mother who always ordered Sherlock to keep his room tidy and clean of blood splatters and organ experiments. Moving out of that house that had stifled him for eighteen years allowed Sherlock to let his more careless side rebel, and flicking his doorknocker was a way to project his new found freedom.

It took him only a handful of weeks and a couple of visits from his elder brother to realise the practical use his irrational habit had. Mycroft was obsessive about keeping things neat and pristine and exact, so he always straightened Sherlock's doorknocker when he arrived for a visit. Sherlock always felt a rush of anger whenever he saw it, as though Mycroft was encroaching on his personal space and trying to push his influence into his life and living arrangements. That straightened doorknocker stood as a reminder that Sherlock could never escape him, could never fully pull himself out from under his shadow. Mycroft left his brand on the exterior of Sherlock's walls, and no matter how many times he tried to adjust it, he always returned to leave his mark.

It became useful whenever Sherlock wanted to avoid him. He would return home from a case and see that offending doorknocker, and decide to take a stroll around the block several times until Mycroft got bored and left. Every so often the elder Holmes was persistent, and Sherlock would have to face him eventually. He had once waited for hours just to let Sherlock know that he knew where he had been the night before, and that he didn't approve. Sherlock had told him to politely piss off, and proceeded to dissect a severed foot until Mycroft sighed dramatically about Sherlock's coping mechanisms and left.

But Sherlock couldn't be bothered walking around the block, waiting for his brother to leave. He knew he wouldn't anyway. It was one of those days where Mycroft would be sitting up in Sherlock's lounge, occasionally running a hand over his books or opening up a few drawers. He would have laid his umbrella neatly against the wall, and might even make himself and cup of tea and settle himself in for a long wait. Sherlock felt exposed and vulnerable, shielded only by a thin blanket, he didn't want to have to face his brother alone.

And then John arrived, with concern radiating from every cell in his body. His arms had griped him tightly, and Sherlock felt his tender back twinge with a sharp ache of pain, but he didn't mind. John had found him, and John was there for him, just like he always was.

The first case they had ever solved together, Sherlock had ended up wrapped in a shock blanket, his life indebted to the man he had just met days before. He had shrugged off the blanket, refusing to appear weak and vulnerable to a man he was trying desperately to impress. John was the first person he had met who had taken in his lifestyle, dealt with his irritable personality and lack of social skills, and had not looked at him with disgust or anger. Sherlock could tell that John was in awe of him from the moment they met, and it threw Sherlock off guard, he was so used to being thought of as 'the freak'. He thought he was a freak, but to John he was more than that, to John he was something better, and he never wanted to break that illusion.

But sitting on those steps, Sherlock didn't mind that John saw how tightly he was gripping that blanket, how much he was depended on it to feel somewhat protected. His walls were already broken, and it was only a matter of time before John realised just how damaged he was, he might as well start preparing John for it now. Part of Sherlock believed that John would get one glimpse behind the barriers he had raised in his mind, and run from him as fast as he could, and disassociate himself from Sherlock's life completely. But if that was going to happen, Sherlock preferred it to happen fast, he hated dragging out his own suffering. If John was to leave, he would leave.

The two of them sat silently on the steps, Sherlock could see John's mind turning, a stream of questions rising to his lips before being pushed back down. The silence was more uncomfortable than anything he could have asked. They didn't know what to say to each other, they were at a loss to how to communicate their emotions. Sherlock could pick it all up from the twist in John brow, to the vein on his neck. He could see it in the positioning of his hands and the cast to his mouth. John was angry and frustrated, he had felt as though he was doing all he could but that he was getting nothing in return. He was slowly losing his patience, but he didn't want to express any of his annoyance, he was fighting it down. There was concern and worry etched clearly in his face, he was tired and exhausted from a sleepless night at his bedside. He had so many things he wanted to hear Sherlock say, but he didn't know how to approach the topic, he was weary and run down, and slightly uncomfortable and out of his depth. For all the injuries he had seen as an army doctor, something about Sherlock's had thrown him, and Sherlock could not bring himself to declare it 'human error'. He was too moved by John's unspoken display of affection, the proof of how he cared.

"So…?" John sat up straighter, breaking the silence with a drawn out consonant and uneasy demeanour.

"So." Sherlock echoed, prompting John to continue, holding his breath for whatever tirade John was about to unleash.

"Shall we head inside then?" John turned around to face him, the guarded look in his eyes had faded, and his voice was lighter and less reserved.

"It's just that, you're not wearing any pants Sherlock. You're naked."

A split second later and the two of them were laughing. John's laughter was warm and hearty, Sherlock's own was natural and authentic. They hadn't laughed together like that for such a long time, but it felt as easy and as simple as it always had. For a few moments they were transported back to when their friendship was effortless, and there wasn't a chasm between them of death and scars and wounds.

John helped Sherlock to his feet, and the two of them entered the apartment. John's posture was prepared to help support the taller man the moment it looked like he was faltering. It would have annoyed Sherlock at any other time, but between what they had just shared, and the concern he could still see in his eyes, Sherlock let him guide him to the staircase.

"Don't think this means I'm not still pissed at you."

Sherlock felt a smile tug at his lips. Of course he was still pissed, he wouldn't be John if he wasn't angry about things he couldn't control. It was somewhat of an endearing quality.

"I know John".

"And don't think that I don't still have questions."

"Of course John"

They reached the top of the stairs, and the older man raised a finger to his taller companion, his voice ringing with authority.

"And you are going to answer them."

Sherlock met his gaze, aware that this was a moment in which he could deny John his questions, and try to rebuild his walls and keep his secrets hidden, at the expense of furthering the distance between them. For a moment he considered it, closing himself off, leaving John in the dark to the things he had gone through. Things would be simpler that way, less complicated. He could push away the only best friend he had ever had, and return to his solitary life where no one bothered him. Where he wasn't pushed to be better, where he was free from the constant worry that he was going to be left behind. But that wasn't what he wanted anymore.

"Of course John."

John's look of triumph left Sherlock feeling warm, maybe even pleased with himself.

With the knowledge that John was by his side, and that John's concern for him outweighed his irritation, Sherlock pushed open the door, feeling ready for the first time in many years to face his brother.


End file.
